


ad captandum vulgus.

by PlaguedQuillfeathers (PlagueBirbizzle)



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Basically President!Wilbur starts to go off the rails, Canon-Typical Violence, Corruption, Cult AU, Cult Leader Wilbur Soot, Cults, Descent into Madness, Duck Hybrid Alexis | Quackity, Emotional Manipulation, Enderman Hybrid Ranboo (Video Blogging RPF), Found Family Dynamics, Gaslighting, Gen, Hybrids, Kinda, Piglin Hybrid Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Piglin Hybrid Wilbur Soot, Post L'Manberg Election Alternate Universe, Raccoon Hybrid TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Ram Hybrid Toby Smith | Tubbo, Saving the World, Shapeshifter Floris | Fundy, Sheep Hybrid Jschlatt (Video Blogging RPF), So it's cult time baby, if POG2020 won
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 19:42:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 31,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29194746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlagueBirbizzle/pseuds/PlaguedQuillfeathers
Summary: latin."to captivate the masses / to ensnare the vulgar"♔as l'manberg grows and grows, tommy starts to see cracks in wilbur's plans, testing boundaries already set in stone. when a stranger enters the nation and starts to confirm his suspicions, there's only one thing he can see on the horizon.if it means betraying wilbur's trust, then so be it.aka "what if wilbur actually started a cult?" & "what if POG2020 won?", but together
Relationships: Jschlatt & Wilbur Soot, Major Platonic Relationships to be added, Ranboo & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Ranboo & Wilbur Soot, Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 46
Kudos: 128





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I promised myself that I wouldn't do another attempt of a massive multi-chapter fic, but here we are! Dedicating this one to all the lovely people in the 18+ (y/o) DSMP Server ; without you all, I wouldn't have had the confidence to write this out. To them especially, I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> A reminder that the tags are a work in progress! I'll be adding characters/relationships as the story is written/planned out. Be mindful of any chapter triggers as well, as violence, emotional manipulation and probably other dark topics may arise. This is a cult AU, after all, so things will get wild.
> 
> Let me know what you think in the comments, or come yell at me @redwxngs on twitter!

The autumn sun casts a light across his bed, peeking through curtains he hadn’t been bothered to close fully the night before. The hustle and bustle of the streets below would not have reached his ears for a couple more hours if he put his mind to it, but the sun is relentless, creeping its way up until a large stretch of light covers his eyes. 

The sun is a bitch.

Tommy doesn’t need to look at the clock on the wall to know he’s probably up before he’s supposed to be, a drawn out groan pairing well with him rolling out of the bed. It’s another day in the great state of L’Manberg, and as the days roll by, he knows that the glamour of it all will slowly fade into obscurity. It’s an odd thing to think about -- all of _that_ becoming ancient history -- but after all he’s given in the fight to secure it, he has to admit that it feels right.

They’d won. That is all that matters.

However, heavy thoughts in the morning have never been his thing, so he brushes them away as bleary eyes rummage through chests for a new set of clothes, mumbles still holding the hoarseness of sleep. Cup-like ears, reminiscent of a raccoon’s, twitch with each palm-rub across his face, slowly returning back to their alertness, while a hastily groomed tail moves back and forth behind him. It’s too early -- way too early -- and he knows it.

Such was the issue with hybrids; sleep schedules are inherently fucked. 

Sometimes, he misses just being able to sleep the day away whenever he wanted to, head sandwiched between two pillows as he blocked out the noise from the streets below, but the nation needed him around more than ever. He isn’t just a revolutionary anymore.

He’s the motherfucking Vice-President; he needs to get shit done. 

Occupied with scattered thoughts, Tommy takes the stairs down to the kitchen while he uses his fingers to comb out his hair, not bothered by his appearance on the latter. Running a nation usually keeps him out of the public eye on most days, since his president prefers to do the talking, so it’s a win-win situation for all of them.

Unlike Tubbo, Tommy knows he’ll probably go absolutely insane if he wears a suit for more than three hours. _’Stupid, stuffy and the collar always itches-- Fuck suits.’_

“Good fucking morning, Big T” -- he pauses. “Are you kidding me.” 

He enters the mutual living quarters to silence, a note stuck ominously on the door and (thankfully) dishes done in the sink. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that Tubbo has already left the room, but Tommy cannot help but scowl when he links it to more observations. Having opted to move in together, Tommy knows Tubbo’s schedule in and out, which only makes the lack of his presence concerning. 

_‘Is something wrong?’_ The thought flashes briefly, deepening the scowl, but he crosses the room to read the note on the door, eyebrows furrowing in concentration.

Tubbo’s scrawl is instantly recognizable, which somewhat rules out a kidnapping.

**Sorry! Wilbur called me in early. Apparently there’s some big traders who want to make an outpost here. Would be good for business. He wants to give them a tour.**

**See you @ WH!**

**Tubbo_**

**P.S. Oh, and good morning!**

“Traders, huh?” The note crumples in his hand as he breezes towards the kitchen, grabbing an apple ( _Non-enchanted, of course. It’s been ages since he had the urge for those._ ) off the counter and goes over to pack his satchel for the day, dumping a couple of notebooks and pens among his daily items. 

He’s still early -- ridiculously early, in fact -- so he doesn’t bother with breakfast from the kitchen. If there’s something big happening at the White House, then he’s going to treat himself to something sugary.

Niki’s bakery comes to mind immediately.

With the prospect of getting the first baked goods of the day, fresh out of the oven, Tommy leaves the house at a brisk pace, entering the lightly populated streets as he pockets the main keys. A few locals turn to look as he passes, identifying his outfit quite quickly, but he barely gives them a glance. He knows that if he greets one, the rest will flock, making it an entire clusterfuck of a roadblock. He has no time for that, and it shows.

Honestly, he prefers the shocked glances sent his way, brushing off the few that scowl in his direction. Some, of course, are just mad that they have to listen to a teenage vice president -- which is somewhat valid -- but others still hold resentment from the elections, which isn’t valid.

L’Manberg has grown. There’s no doubt about it, and with the way it’s growing, Tommy is sure that he will not even remember the layout of the surrounding forests in a year’s time as more and more of it is claimed by settlers. It pleases him greatly to know that he has a hand in this -- that he shall be going down in history as one of the founders -- and honestly, he’ll still flex that title until he has no reason to anymore.

He doubts that will happen anytime soon.

The election had been a turning point like no other, with excitement in the air as the day loomed closer and closer. Luckily, the people of L’Manberg were mostly from faraway lands, making most of the candidates’ first impressions important, but rumors still spread like wildfires during most of the campaign. 

POG2020 had the most public history behind them -- with the running mates being integral to the formation of the nation in the first place -- but the opposition had their own tricks and their own forms of persuasion. The battleground was not as clear cut as intended, not with the vote merge looming over their heads.

If SCHLATT2020 had one, Tommy didn’t know what he would have done with himself, but POG2020 won fair and square, so the nation was in good hands.

It was always in good hands; the election only proved it so.

He soon finds himself entering the store of another member of the opposition, though Tommy knows deep down that Niki’s COCONUT2020 faction would have never stood a chance. The bell rings a melody, causing him to look up at it in interest, but he’s soon greeted by a call from the backroom, “I’ll be out in a minute!”

It’s Niki. He smiles. “Morning Niki! It’s alright!”

“Great!”

The smell of freshly baked bread covers the room as much as the warmth does, leaving Tommy to breathe in happily as he leans on the front counter. Beside him, the display case is already brimming with baked goods, ranging from picture perfect croissants to multicoloured macarons. He’ll never understand how someone can be so good at a range of things, but he’s learned not to underestimate Niki Nihachu.

He’s eyeing down a row of chocolate croissants when Niki makes her appearance, all bright smiles and even brighter gaze. ‘ _She’s probably been up for hours’_ \-- Tommy notes, impressed. _‘Can’t be me.’_

She’s a powerhouse -- juggling the cabinet’s diplomacy meetings and her bakery with practised ease.

_‘Wait...Diplomacy? That’s odd.`_

“Tommy! Good morning.” Her greeting is as warm as the room while she places a tray of unglazed doughnuts on the table behind her. “You’re here early. I hope Wilbur isn’t running you dry back at the White House.” She looks over, eyebrow raised. “He sent me a message saying that he’s staying up again. He really needs to get more sleep.”

“Well, you know Wilbur...Once he’s set on something, he’s going to do it.” His reply holds every bit of amusement he can muster. 

“Runs in the family, huh?”

It really did, which made things pretty interesting when they all had conflicting goals. He could still remember village shopping as a kid; pooling together pocket emeralds for something that could be shared had been one of the worst (and constant) decisions he’d ever made with his brothers.

He’d lost his third tooth on one of those days, though, so honestly it had its profits. “Maybe it does.” 

Niki chuckles, head shaking slightly, but soon joins him at the counter, “So what’s got all of you up today? Tubbo came in earlier,” The mention of his best friend causes Tommy to glance up, interested. “Said you were still asleep, but wouldn’t tell me why Wil called him in and didn’t call you too. I thought you guys were a package deal--”

Tommy wrinkles his nose, “Not really.”

“--I’m kidding.”

“Oh.” He still makes sure to roll his eyes, though it maintains its good nature. “Anyway, we’re totally _not_ a package deal. I’m, like, a premium deal. The best deal, in fact. So rare, there’s only one of me.”

“And we’re grateful for that.”

“Hey!”

Niki’s laugh rings out across the room as Tommy flusters, but they’re soon mutually dissolving in laughter once the joke simmers. The younger looks over to see that during this, Niki had already moved to package a chocolate croissant, knowing gaze fixed on the delicate pastries. She’s always had that sixth sense when it came to his family; while she knew Wilbur the most, apparently the rest of brothers were equally easy to read.

He’s never been shy of saying that it’s creepy -- lovingly, of course, in his own Tommy way.

“You’ve got to stop reading my mind. I want to keep all my knowledge on talking to girls up in my head so I can write a book on it. Maybe sell a couple thousand and become rich with my fame.” His pout holds no weight, given that Niki merely scoffs at it. “I’m serious, Niki! I’m going to be L’Manberg’s next bestseller. Right next to that Manifold guy.”

“Maybe you will. Remember to sign one of those books for me, then. I’ll put it in the reading nook.” Her tone, though teasing, holds that underlying sense of genuinity that Tommy cannot help but beam at it. He’s always been a sucker for people believing in him, no matter how wild his ideas may get, so that switch is activated on impulse.

It stays on, however, because he trusts Niki. 

“Oh, I will.” 

The conversation halts once the bell rings once more, revealing a small family of citizens who are probably there to make a purchase. Tommy, understanding this, flashes a quick grin and leaves his payment on the table, sending his farewells over his shoulder as he exits the store. Luckily, he can avoid the song and dance of not paying Niki because she says it’s fine; he never has it in him to say no to those pleading eyes of hers, but he’ll figure it out someday. 

Nonetheless, the streets have filled out a bit, sporting more citizens and showing just how quickly the nation is growing. Most would be on their way to work, while some would spend their days doing whatever they wanted, exploring and having fun. A pair of children dart past, toy swords waving, and he smiles slightly.

Not too long ago, he would not have expected the sight to make him smile, but now, he’s glad it does.

“Wait,” He frowns. “Is this how Phil feels?”

He brushes it off, chuckling. 

Turning towards the Presidential Square, he sets his sights on the day ahead.

He only remembers what he wanted to ask Niki when it’s too late to turn back. It’s odd that Niki wasn’t called in, given her background, but his brother isn’t a moron. 

_‘Oh well. Wil probably has his reasons for not asking Niki to greet the traders.’_

Wilbur usually does.

* * *

The New White House, commissioned and planned by Wilbur’s son, sits upon a little hill that overlooks the square, just in sight of the podium where it all went down. Currently, with the square not in use, it has become a public space for citizens and visitors alike to convene, with merchants lining the edges and musicians filling the space with their craft. While most enjoy being able to see the president’s place of residence from the square, they probably wouldn’t be as intrigued if they heard the absolute chaos within it.

Tommy walks into the main foyer to a loud scream, followed by words he hopes he is hallucinating. 

Given that it came from Quackity, however, there is a high chance that he heard them loud and clear: “Ayo, we are not going to give the llamas L’Manberg wooly hats!”

The boardroom before him bursts into mutters and mumbles, showing that Big Q is not alone, so Tommy merely winces and starts up the stairs before someone notices his presence. 

He’s not surprised to find the first floor empty, given that everyone seems to be brainstorming on the ground floor, but once he reaches the second (producing a key to unlock the gate at the end) he’s intrigued by the soft mumbles coming from Wilbur’s office. 

The entire third floor is restricted exclusively for the president, mostly for safety and partially because Wilbur loved the view. However, only the office is considered public access, leaving the rest of the space as a somewhat functional home. Tommy can’t ever see himself living so close to his work, but it seems to give Wilbur peace of mind to be able to bounce into action at a moment’s notice.

_‘Good ol’ Wilbur: Always here to help.’_

A steady knock on the door has the mumbles pause, with a strong reply to enter following, so Tommy heeds the call with a greeting on his lips.

The smell of coffee doesn’t do enough to mask how stuffy the room is.

“Prime fucking dammit, Wil,” He makes a face, ears flattening and hand clutching his bag of croissants tighter. If there was an option not to breathe in that air, he would have taken it. “Would it kill you to open a window? It’s like something died in here.”

“Oh...The windows aren’t open?” Wilbur does not look up as he speaks, voice sounding far away, non-committal. The yawn only solidifies it, followed by a few ear flicks, frustrated. “I didn’t notice.”

Tommy can’t help but notice the signs quite quickly, given that his older brother hasn’t looked like he does since the old war days. Sitting at his desk, Wilbur is hunched over, hair a little frazzled from his hand running through it, but overall laser-focused on the papers before him. By the smell of coffee, he’s already downed a couple cups to keep him up through the night, but while his appearance can be deemed as concerning, his sharp gaze is not.

Wilbur has always been the one to push through all-nighters with ease, even if his body is screaming for a break.

It’s insanity and brilliance at its peak. 

Tommy knows that he has always secretly envied the other for that drive, that strong push to get things going; sure, Wilbur is older and has more experience in going for his goals, but there’s always that _something_ the younger seems to lack. Wilbur, to him at least, almost has it all. People listen to him and trust him due to his personality -- his picture perfect phrasing. He inspires so many without breaking a damn sweat, all while building a nation that has so many flocking to him with ideas and challenges alike. It’s fucking insane, if he has to put it lightly, but somehow it works. It always seems to work out for Wilbur in the end, to the point where he’s still with two lives while Tommy coasts along on his final life.

_‘Maybe,’_ That pesky voice says, _‘You should be like Wilbur.’_

_‘Maybe,’_ That pesky voice purrs, _‘You’ll stop messing up.’_

_‘You have one last chance.’_

And oh, does he know it.

“Are you just going to stare? What’s up?” 

Tommy’s thoughts are broken by Wilbur’s ear twitching, gaze finally tearing away from the papers to look at him. While the tone is teasing, it’s only cemented by a small grin, bottom tusks more exposed than usual. He glances down, grin only widening. “Are those for me?”  
  
“Get your own, bitch.” The pastry bag is pulled to Tommy’s chest immediately, his tail raising in defense. Once he realizes the latter, he stubbornly lowers it down, huffing. “I had to do all the walking for these. I’m not paid enough as it is.”

“Come on!” Wilbur’s narrowed eyes stare back at him, while his nostrils flare dramatically. It probably would have worked as an intimidation tactic on his twin’s face, but it falls flat with Wilbur’s more human-like traits. “I’ll pay you in love and respect.”

Tommy doesn’t budge. “Does that come in emerald, because it’s a bitch currency if it doesn’t.”

That draws a laugh out of Wilbur, head bowing slightly as his shoulders shake. Tommy can’t help but grin at the sight, given that the elder seemed to need a bit of levity in the room. He takes the shift in atmosphere to fix the window problem, opting to perch atop one of the sills for efficient clean-air intake. 

He’s smart like that. “So what’s all of this about traders? I thought Niki handled the whole diplomacy thing, because I’m apparently too rude, Quackity is too short and you’re too busy.”

Wilbur merely rolls his eyes fondly. “Well, two out of the three is usually right, but I’ve cleared out a few meetings to tour the traders.” He picks up a paper from the desk, waving it around. “Remember those talks about traders up north? Well, apparently they’ve heard of us too. L’Manberg is slowly putting itself on the map.”  
  
The glee in his voice makes Tommy smile slightly. Besides, after the war for Independence (and getting separated from their former affiliation to Dream’s greater SMP) it feels great to see everything thriving. It wasn’t all for nothing; that’s enough of a confidence booster.

Wilbur continues talking. “They say they’ve sent visitors to check us out before, but now some of the big guys are arriving, so how else would we impress them? Presidential tour, baby.” His grin is infectious, oozing confidence and energy that shouldn’t be in a man who hasn’t slept in at least 24 hours. While Tommy should have called that out, Wilbur is already back to talking at a mile a minute, body language staying theatrical despite being seated.

More papers are waved as Tommy tucks into his croissant. “So I’ve planned out a route and everything. All the questions they can ask? I’ve thought of them. Maybe I’ll have them for lunch -- not in a cannibal sort of way, because I'm not a monster.”

“That wouldn’t be good for business.” The reply is muffled. “Don’t eat anyone.”

“We wouldn’t want the Badlands’ reputation, anyway.” Tommy almost chokes on his current mouthful, glaring at his brother for having the audacity to make him laugh mid chew, but Wilbur does not notice it. In fact, his firecracker talk has been paused by a long yawn, hands brushing down his face in an unconscious display of fatigue. “We...We’re going to be better. Prove Dream wrong.”

Despite the determination in his voice, Wilbur is tired.

That neverending drive only spurs Tommy’s concern, and solidifies his secret respect.

He wants them all to succeed -- to thrive

“Hey--” The younger swallows quickly, “Hey, maybe I can come with? Double the wow-factor by having us both there?” With the way Wilbur is drifting in and out, it would make sense to have someone there to pick up conversation when he needs a moment. Sure, the man is brilliant at holding a conversation, but Tommy cannot help but _want to help,_ so to speak. It’s Wilbur’s important project, after all.

He wants it to succeed, so Tommy wants it, too.

The more they succeed, the higher chance that luck will transfer over to his disks.

_‘We’ll get them back, Tommy. I promise.’_ Distant thoughts settle on his shoulder like a phantom hand, calm and sure. That’s what Wilbur is to him: the calm in his constant storm.

“You sure?” 

He wants to be that as well, if only for a moment.

“Yup. I’m sure. I’ll be good.” 

Wilbur stares for a moment, silently gauging the response for any hints of sarcasm, which Tommy quietly accepts as normal. What he doesn’t expect, however, is for Wilbur to get up from his seat and walk over, stopping in front of him and leaning forward. Their foreheads touch, restricting their visions, and Wilbur _stares._

They’re at eye-level, giving Tommy ample time to stare into that dark gaze. He knows what this is -- Wilbur often did it when they were kids -- so Tommy falls silent as they both try not to blink.

They stare.

And stare.

And stare.

It’s calming, even if they won’t admit it.

_‘I’ll be good. I promise.’_ He wants to say it once more -- to drill it into the mind of his older brother -- but he knows that his gaze has probably said enough. Tommy, true to form, isn’t the best at hiding his emotions, just like Wilbur.

So Wilbur knows.

“You don’t have to tell me that, Toms.” A hand rests on Tommy’s shoulder just as Wilbur blinks, a warm smile taking over his features. It’s a comforting touch, which Tommy latches onto with his own smile, and if Wilbur makes the connection, he doesn’t call it out. He only nods, hand squeezing slightly. “You’re going to do great...I trust you. Always have. Right?”

Those words quiet the storm, if only for a moment.

Tommy opts to breathe in, then out, then in again. “Right.”

Wilbur’s proud smile is addictive.

They would have both smiled, mutually content, if it weren’t for a rustle beneath them and Wilbur lifting a bag into their peripheral view. The dotted pastry bag, now successfully in his hands, only means one thing.

“Thanks for the breakfast, bitch.”

Tommy barely gets the threat out before Wilbur is diving across the room, laughter splitting the air, and the third floor descends into chaos.

* * *

The traders asked to meet at the north entrance.

As the state grew, the original walls built by Eret were demolished, with more temporary walls being put in place until the growth started to level out. Wilbur had been happy to witness those walls fall the moment the decision was made final, seeing them as a leftover from a more restrictive era of the nation and pinning their removal as a win for freedom. 

Tommy, of course, knew that there was an underlying reason for his glee, even if the other words were still valid: The walls were built by Eret.

No traitor deserved to have their structure still standing.

Nonetheless, the walls had long since faded from thought, with the nation growing past them and into the surrounding forests. The north entrance, as a result, was lucky to have such a beautiful archway of fiery trees, leaves tumbling down gently in the wind. The contrast makes it quite easy to pick out the traders from afar.

Tommy elbows Wilbur before opting to wave as they approach, pulling identically amused smiles from the duo. Donned in sapphire hues of the most impressive dyes, it’s quite obvious that the men are wealthy, the odd citizen’s gaze sweeping over them in interest. While most would be wary to be displaying their wealth so openly, the wandering traders tend to know the ins and outs of avoiding a mugging.

That, and their llamas are aggressive.

With that thought in mind, Tommy unconsciously shuffles back once one of the trader’s llamas moves into his personal space, causing the strangers to laugh, which Wilbur joins. 

The llama snorts, and Tommy can’t help but want to cuss it out for being a complete asshole.

At least, this time, he refrains from baring his teeth, even if he knows his tail is as puffed up as his chest, showing off his indignance without a single word.

He says nothing, because he made a promise.

_‘I’ll be good’_ hangs over his head like a halo, circling constantly and briefly seering his brain whenever he looks over at Wilbur, who has already launched into warm welcomes and bright smiles. He did himself up for the meeting since their rendevouz in the morning, suit well pressed and epaulettes in place. While refusing to dress entirely like a king, L’Manberg’s colours shine well through his business-casual suit, making him look approachable, but also important.

Tommy’s outfit is similar, of course, and for once, he feels like he’s wearing the suit and not the other way around.

It’s nice.

Introductions are soon fading into the background as Wilbur launches into the tour, twisting and turning through the streets. The president, as per usual, gets into the swing of things quite quickly, leaving Tommy to get as engrossed into his storytelling as the traders. If the world is a song, then Wil is surely the conductor, marching to his own beat and making others clap along. 

The traders, naturally, are impressed, offering suggestions on where to build their outpost, as well as congratulating the bustling trade market currently present. With each reply, Tommy can almost see Wilbur’s euphoria spilling out of his ears, which only does wonders for the group in his presence.

It’s a beauty to watch, an absolute fucking beauty.

Well, until a trader points down one of the streets leading to an undeveloped stretch of forest, barren except for a solitary house. The issue with calling it a house is, however, that the structure is obviously derelict, interior charred by flame and exterior looking equally worse for wear. An outlier, the ghost of a house stands, broken, but boldly standing.

A reminder.

A blemish.

While the traders observe it, Tommy spots Wilbur’s expression drop, gaze clouding with _something_ indescribable before it clears just as quickly. However, while his next words hold the same energy as before, Tommy notes something _especially_ wrong with the content.

Wilbur, without mercy, lies.

“Oh, that old thing? Well, I’m sure you’ve heard of the man called JSchlatt.” The traders turn, obviously intrigued, leaving Wil to continue speaking with a somewhat sombre tone. “He ran against us -- in fact, he inserted himself into the elections after returning from Dream’s banishment. We’d let him run regardless; we thought he’d gone straight, turned over a new leaf as they say, but when he lost...Oh, when he lost!”

Election night hadn’t been purely celebrations.

Tommy remembers the sudden boom that rocked the ground, followed by piercing shrieks and smoke billowing in the air. 

He remembers Quackity, hands bloody as he dug through the rubble, duck wings caked with smoke and ash.

He remembers the bodies, and particularly the lack of a body with swirling ram horns.

However, most importantly, he remembers that the explosion was caused by mercenaries sent by Dream or the Badlands -- not by Schlatt himself, even if the man seemed to have ran away. The rumours, however, are so rooted in society that everyone thinks otherwise. 

He wonders why Wilbur, to this day, encourages it, especially to two outsiders who have no bias.

It rubs him the wrong way.

“When he lost, he ran away. Probably out of disgrace...Schlatt’s a sore loser.” The words are out of his mouth before Wilbur can continue, causing the trio to turn their attention to him. The traders maintain their quiet interest, but Tommy misses Wilbur’s expression as he goes to stand beside him. “I mean, the explosion was awful, but we’re rebuilding this street pretty soon and still tracking down the assholes who--”

Wilbur’s hand rests on his shoulder. 

Tommy words die in his throat.

“Oh, the perpetrators have been found. We have multiple suspects.” Before Tommy can add onto that, Wilbur squeezes slightly -- a warning. “Naturally, this is prime real estate and we would love to have someone willing to build here, so if you are aware of any prospective builders, I can gladly assist with any future endeavors.”

_‘Why are you lying?’_ The thought, traitorous, rests in Tommy’s mind, but while he wants not to justify it, he still finds himself doing it.

Wilbur squeezes again, ever so slightly, and Tommy holds his tongue once more.

_‘I trust you. Always have.’_

Wilbur had said that.

Wilbur was counting on him

Wilbur only wanted the best for everyone, even him. 

So when Wilbur smiles, Tommy notes that it doesn’t quite catch his gaze, irises still swirling with some form of disappointment.

It hurts to see.

Tommy doesn’t like it.

As the traders deliberate, then shake hands and thank them both for the tour, Tommy stays silent, only talking when expected and observing quietly. Wilbur’s hand had long since removed itself from his shoulder, but that phantom feeling remained, squeezing.

A bitter reminder.

_‘I’ll be good. I promise.’_ That thought feels heavy, potential lost to the wind, but somehow Wilbur continues to fix it in place. Somehow, throughout his fuckups, Wilbur is the one fixing them.

It’s not fair.

And yet, as he thinks deeper, it’s not fair that Wilbur is _lying,_ too _._

Tommy cannot help but feel responsible, but he doesn’t bring it up.

As Wilbur returns back to his home, the lie still rings, words so rehearsed that Tommy can only wonder if his brother had planned it. Had he seen the opportunity and took it, even after months of building propositions coming in? As dusk settles across L’Manberg, casting Schlatt’s derelict street into darkness, Tommy tries to shake off the lie -- hell, even the reasoning for the lie. 

He tries, but he cannot.

Try as he might, however, the words stick -- tone dismissive and sombre and _oh so wrong._

“What are you up to, Wil…And why are you so fucking hellbent on keeping it quiet?”

The questions fall on no ears, but as Tommy mutters to himself, each word drops a little weight off his shoulders.

The feeling of that phantom hand, eventually, fades.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we continue! :) Lmk what you think!
> 
> Edit: If there seems to be a reupload, sorry about that! It seems something messed with my upload pfft.

The trader tour soon fades into obscurity as the days roll by, leaving Tommy to focus on more pressing matters instead of worrying about things that don’t involve him. Despite that, he still finds himself often taking the longer route back home, staring down the barren street that Wilbur chose to sugarcoat. 

He somewhat understands why it was done -- why it was in L’Manberg’s best interests to come across as a safe and secure nation -- but the tone of voice still haunts him.

That squeezing hand hovers just out of sight, ready to pull him in.

However, as the weeks pass, things are starting to look up for the cabinet as a whole, which leads to Wilbur being able to get more sleep than usual. Tommy can’t help but be grateful for that, given Wilbur was basically sleepwalking for the last while, unable to stop himself from tackling the next project. There is only so much he can do, and while sitting on his brother until he fell asleep may have worked when they were kids, Tommy had become significantly lighter in comparison to Wilbur’s sudden growth spurt.

Such is piglin hybrid anatomy -- in fact, most mob hybrids had that trait; Tommy barely recognizes his brothers in old family photos, let alone his own raccoon-like self. Growth spurts truly can change a hybrid in a month.

Some, however, have yet to show signs of that.

“Tommy! Over here!” Tubbo’s voice rings across the square, causing Tommy to jump at least a foot in the air before he whirls around. He isn’t expecting such a loud greeting, so it shows spectacularly on his face, jaw slack and pupils blown. 

Even after all this time, to him at least, others saying his name loudly usually shifted into some sort of fight.

The young ram hybrid can only laugh at the sight as he trots over, gaze mischievous and mind oblivious to the aforementioned tidbit. Dressed in casual wear, Tommy can’t help but notice just how odd it looks on his friend, having grown so used to the business suits he had opted to wear at work. 

With those growing ram horns, only halfway through their iconic spiral, Tommy only has to close his eyes and see another face. 

An unwelcome face, given the circumstances.

_Suits, as usual, aren’t his favourite._

However, while the strong familiarity before him has faded ever so slightly, he still has some foundation to work with, given that the classic greens and blues pull him in like an old friend. Tommy somewhat wishes that he wore more red himself; he misses the simplicity of it.

He misses the old days a lot, even if he’ll never admit it.

“What the hell was that for?” A little frazzled, Tommy proceeds to fold his arms, scowl settling lightly on his features. The tone, however, doesn’t translate seamlessly into his tough guy body language, since he’s still spluttering, ears twitching in frustration as he gets the words out. 

He isn’t _scared_. No, he never gets scared.

Tubbo, like a good friend, doesn’t openly debunk it. “Sorry, Big T, I got ahead of myself. We’ve got a whole afternoon off,” Excited hooves trot in place, showing just how much energy the hybrid is ready to expel. Tommy can’t help but smile slightly at the sight. “And we need to make the most of it. I mean, when was the last time we had this?”

“Huh…” The question truly floors Tommy, given that he spends a ridiculous time trying to uncover their last free afternoon together, mind coming up blank. It’s ridiculous -- an outrage, really -- but while the shock fades, he understands it completely. "Not sure."

"Weird, huh?"

Despite living together, the duo tended to spend the entire day in the White House, and if outside, they probably weren’t together. The Secretary of State usually supports everyone in the cabinet, after all, making Tubbo a mandatory presence in most meetings. Hell, there were times where Tommy only saw Tubbo in the morning and in the evening. It’s a little fucked up to think about, which Tommy admits internally, but such is their lives now.

Like Wilbur, everyone needs a break.

Tommy, of course, knows this.

“You’re right. It’s been too fucking long.” Tommy nods, gaze scanning over his friend’s head and into the crowds. Various citizens of all shapes and sizes move around them, living their lives and experiencing the glory of the square. Near the centre, a couple of kids take turns splashing each other in a newly installed fountain, avoiding the outstretched limbs of blank-faced statues of revolutionaries. “I mean, we haven’t had many of these days since the election.”

Tommy stares at one of those faces, mind carving a more accurate face upon it; he still hasn’t wrapped his mind around such displays of recent history, especially with the obvious amendments.

“Work hard, play hard.” Tubbo follows his gaze, only to smile slightly at the statue. “I guess it’s time to play. Want to check the outskirts? We can probably get lunch at the cliffside.”

_The cliffside? Ah._

“I’m glad we have that, at least -- The cliffside.” 

“Yeah…”

The two exchange glances, Tommy’s a little more open to interpretation, but the general emotion is mutual.

The general emotion, of course, is determination.

The War for Independence took a lot from them, but as the dust settled, Tommy knew that he had lost the most. From his lives to his disks, there always seemed to be some sort of sacrifice to obtain what he wanted, slowly leading to him clinging tighter onto the things that remained. It was a lost cause to care about his lost lives -- especially since he knew of someone who had survived so well with only one -- but he did want those discs back.

Sitting at the cliffside doesn’t feel complete without them.

Sitting at the cliffside, after defeating Dream, would feel more than complete with them.

Oh, wouldn’t that be great.

“Alright then: Food, cliffside, then home.” Tubbo nods, not bringing up their unspoken pact, but he turns towards a street leading out of the square, inclining his head to follow. “We aren’t getting younger. Let’s go.”

“Maybe you aren’t getting younger, but I’m always younger, bitch.” Scoffing, Tommy falls into step beside him, receiving a light knock on this side. Tubbo is mindful of the tips of his horns as he does his little ritual, laughing softly, and the two disappear into the crowd as another topic rises to the surface. 

Calm. Happy. 

Content, if only for a moment.

To an unbiased spectator, they look exactly as expected: two kids, roaming the world.

And that’s fine by them.

* * *

Tubbo stops to grab snacks before they exit the nation’s centre, arms and chin balancing the bag as they walk. While Tommy had originally stated that Tubbo looks ridiculous and that he should hold the bag, the latter insisted that he’d manage with the food until they got to the cliffside, so the discussion was dropped.

Well, besides Tommy’s occasional reminder that Tubbo still looks _ridiculous._

As their journey takes them further away from the action, L’Manberg starts to quieten around them, tall buildings starting to shrink and pedestrians lessening with each passing street. There’s an obvious reason -- as the nation is still growing from the inside out -- but it’s still a marvel to watch.

Tubbo, quite involved in the process, soon starts pointing things out. 

“I mean, we kinda wanted to reserve that spot for more businesses, so we did it a little different. There are businesses on the ground floor and rooms at the top!” The hybrid starts up again, proud of his accomplishments, but Tommy can’t help but sigh. “Wilbur says the idea is so brilliant that we’ll probably try and steer newcomers into accommodation close to their work, but it’s only a suggestion. L’Manberg is all about freedom, after all. That’s what he’d said -- Wilbur, I mean -- but he was impressed. Great, huh?”

Tubbo beams, obviously enamoured with the praise sent his way, but his friend only sighs, looking away.

Tommy doesn’t want to talk about work on his day off. “Hey, hey, no work talk. We’re on a mini vacation right now. Work leave.” He e _specially_ doesn’t quite want to talk about Wilbur either, nor look at someone fawning over him, so he looks off into the distance instead. “No president stuff, too -- Wilbur’s ass is kissed enough and he isn’t here right now to moon us.”

“Oh.” Tommy misses Tubbo’s shift in expression, as if the notion presented is off putting entirely, but before his friend can turn to face him, he bounces back with a reply, gaze turning towards a plume of smoke in the distance. “Well, if we’re on vacation, we might as well get high.”

The plume of smoke, of course, comes from the epicentre of a revolution, or so they love to say.

Tommy laughs, however, for the camarvan (currently known as _Camarvan Inc._ ) was far more than an up and coming potions company. “I mean, you aren’t going to get much of a high from legal potions, but maybe you know something I don’t.”

“Maybe I do.”

“Oh, I doubt it.”

“I mean, it’s prime real estate, so I do know everything that happens in there.” Tubbo’s grin is sly, eyebrows waggling. “It’s pretty cool, if I do say so myself. Cool and legal.”

“I’d fucking hope so.”

Advertising a new nation as ‘ _born from an illegal drug van_ ’ doesn’t do well for business, after all.

If it did, he’d eat his words.

_‘Prime real estate....’_

_‘Wait, Tubbo--’_ The thought steers Tommy into a bit of a splutter, with more thoughts creeping out of the woodwork almost immediately and clamouring for attention. _‘Of course. Why didn’t I just ask him?’_

"Wait wait wait!" He stops walking abruptly, causing Tubbo to yelp slightly as he halts as well, but Tommy is already changing course as he takes a longer route to the cliffside path. “Remember how I said that we’re on vacation? Ignore that for a bit...I have a question.”

Tubbo, already questioning the route change, seems to pause, flicked ears showing his confusion. The request feels a little off, but he doesn’t look too deep into it; Tommy, as a long-lasting friend, tends to spring things on him like this.

So he attempts to shrug his shoulders, succeeding ever so slightly. “Uh, sure. What’s the question?”

“It’s about Schlatt’s old house and--”

“What?”

Tubbo stops, but given his shorter stride, Tommy is a little further once he stops as well.

"What?" Incredulous, the raccoon hybrid stares back, “It’s about Schlatt’s house. You heard me.” He doesn’t catch the gritting of Tubbo’s teeth, jaw locking. “I mean, I went with Wilbur to do that tour and those traders may be building there. Thought you might know about it.”

Tubbo doesn’t respond, so Tommy takes that as a cue to speak further -- to elaborate.

Once he starts talking, he doesn’t stop, each word feeling like a weight removed. The meeting, the little white lies, Tommy says it all, trying to uncover if there was something he missed. Maybe, in the paperwork he could not have been arsed to read, there had been some sort of memo? If anyone knew, surely it would be Tubbo, right?

_’It feels so good’,_ his mind supplies. _‘So, so good.’_

So he talks.

“Tommy.” Tubbo tries to speak, voice soft, but it’s drowned in Tommy’s explosion of words. He seems nervous, uncomfortable.

Tommy doesn’t see it. “--So what I’m saying is, well, are there suspects I don’t know about? If there are, maybe some of them can get to Dream...” 

“Tommy.” Tubbo tries again, this time a little frustrated. “Tommy, listen--”

“And we can get the disks back, I swear.” Tommy’s losing steam, hands fidgeting as he pieces together a conclusion. “I know, I know, the disks can wait, but if we find out who did this, maybe we find out some more information and then we can make a plan for--”

“ _Tommy!_ ” Tubbo has moved to stand right in front of him when the final call sounds, voice vibrating as his ram genes bleat out the word. The sound, rare from his friend, causes Tommy to shut his mouth.

They stare, and Tubbo catches his breath.

“Tommy...I think you’ve got it all wrong.” 

Tommy, confused, pauses. “What do you mean?”

Tubbo seems calm, gaze sympathetic, and Tommy can’t help but squirm at the sight of it. This isn’t the face of his friend when they were deep within the war over his disks, willing to risk it all to scam Dream out of them. No, Tubbo looks like a parent getting ready to tell their kids that Santa Claus isn’t real.

He doesn’t like it, expression morphing to show that sentiment. “Tubbo, what do you mean?”

“There were suspects, yes…” Tubbo looks down at the floor, gaze darkening. “There were a couple, actually, but they all linked back to Schlatt alone...Not the badlands and definitely not Dream.”

' _But that--’_

“Wilbur talked with them because he knew we’d probably be a little more aggressive. Quackity told me the outcome; as you can imagine, he didn’t take it well, given that he trusted Schlatt had changed more than any of us.” The words sound like they're coming through something slimy, slurring around Tommy’s mind and hollowed out by mental alarm bells. "We don't talk about it, for everyone's sanity."

Sanity?

Tommy wants to scream.

‘I _t makes no sense,’_ his mind supplies, chest tightening, _‘It makes absolutely no sense.’_

As much as Tommy wishes to blame Schlatt, domestic terrorism doesn’t seem like the hybrid’s type of manipulation.

‘ _It sounds like Dream’s,’_ his mind screams, _‘It has to be Dream!’_

Yet, as Tommy panics, Tubbo pushes on, looking up and putting on a brave face. It’s obvious that talk of the events after election night still haunts the young hybrid; it makes sense, given that Schlatt had invited him over to his house regardless of the election outcome.

Tubbo is putting on a brave face, because knows so many who weren’t as lucky as he was. 

_They’d always expected him to run away with Schlatt, after all. A traitor: a filthy little ram hybrid traitor._

But he isn’t -- _he’s not a traitor_ \-- and he’s proved that time and time again.

Wilbur knows it, and for that, Tubbo is grateful.

Eternally grateful, perhaps.

“Hey...I know it’s upsetting and I--” Tubbo pauses, before starting back up in earnest. In his eyes, Tommy looks absolutely _devastated,_ and that can’t do. Tommy shouldn’t be sad, not when there’s still hope. 

That’s what Wilbur said, at least, ruffling the hair between Tubbo's horns and telling him to keep his head up. If Wilbur was there, Tubbo is quite sure he would do the same for Tommy. 

Wilbur always knows what to do.

“I wish it was Dream. I wish we had _something_.” So Tubbo tries the same, placing the bag of snacks on the floor and resting a hand on Tommy’s shoulder, tone taking the same reassuring tone as his president. He feels like it will work -- Wilbur just has that comforting voice without any effort, so he tests it out, fumbling his words ever so slightly. “Well, I wish it was different. Maybe Dream will try something else, but as our security builds up and things settle, we’ll be able to challenge his group, yeah? Get back at all of them.”

He doesn’t note Tommy stiffening under his palm, his tail freezing in midair as if spooked; if it weren’t for Tommy closing his eyes, perhaps Tubbo would have seen the absolute fury in his friend’s gaze, wishing to remove himself from the conversation.

_‘It makes absolutely no sense.’_ Tommy’s mind screams. _‘Tubbo...Please, it doesn’t make sense.’_

And, after airing his thoughts, Tommy now knows that Tubbo is in too deep -- caught in Wilbur’s crossfire. “I can’t believe he did that. I can’t believe--” 

_And yet..._

Tommy swallows his pride -- compartmentalizing his anger, just like Philza taught him -- and opens his eyes to Tubbo’s curious gaze. Flashing a smile, he finally retreats from the hand on his shoulder ( _the phantom weight, of course, retreats too_ ) and with his breaths a little uneven, he immediately launches into something mentally defensive.

He breathes out.

_Despite the perceived danger -- the looming danger, potentially poised to snatch his final life -- he places Tubbo’s safety above his own. Unfortunately, it leaves him with few choices, so he chooses the safest._

Tommy breathes in.

“You’re...You’re right.” Tommy lies.

“Fuck Schlatt regardless -- I mean, sorry.” In his lie, Tommy backtracks, offering a small wince when Tubbo stiffens, “I know he was, well, trying to rekindle things. All that ram stuff he promised to teach you. I’m sorry…”

“Don’t be. I don't care about it anymore.” Tubbo’s reply, however, shows that the stiffening is not in guilt, but only in anger. “He’s...He’s not a good person. You guys have always been the most trustworthy, and I’m just happy to be alive.”

_‘And you better stay alive.’_

Tommy doesn’t voice the thought.

“Well, we should get moving.” Stretching, Tommy lets off a small yawn before snatching up the bag, ignoring Tubbo’s small bleat at the motion. “We’ll miss the sunset and I don’t want to fight off any mobs with my fists on the way home.”

"Oh, yeah...Let's be quick then." Tubbo, visibly softening at the obvious topic change, chuckles softly. “I’m sure you miss punching zombies.”

“Not when I need to smell good; I have a pocket knife for a reason. Vice-Presidents are supposed to smell good. Not sure about the Secretary of State, though.”

“Hey, I smell amazing. Excuse you.” Tubbo, dropping the pout that had settled onto his face, merely folds his arms to show mock displeasure, ears twitching as he holds back a laugh. “And after _living_ with you, I’m so sure that itty bitty knife isn’t going to be able to shank--” 

“ _It’s not little, bitch!”_

“ _Yes it is! It’s so small!”_

_“Take that back--”_

An ear splitting shriek fills the air, causing them both to whirl around in fear, but as a bunch of birds take off into the air just a little ways into the forest, it’s quite obvious that someone is in distress.

That isn't good -- not one bit.

The forests around L’Manberg are generally safe, lanterns lit at night to drive away most monsters with their light, but the shriek sends a shiver down both of their spines, even before they realize that the sun hasn’t set. If someone is hurt, it’s probably not by a mob that got stuck under the shade of already shedding trees.

It’s probably from the malice of another citizen, or maybe a stranger.

The two barely exchange a glance before Tubbo breaks into a sprint, hooves thudding against the path, and Tommy follows close behind, bag held precariously in one arm while the other rummages for his not-so-little pocket knife.

_L’Manberg is safe,_ they say. _Everyone is safe._

_It’s supposed to be._

Perhaps they’ll get to prove it soon.

* * *

By the time they arrive at the scene, there seems to be a small crowd surrounding a curled up figure, with nobody taking the initiative to check them out. A young girl, obviously frantic, is being consoled by another group not too far away, occasionally looking towards the figure, only to have her head turned away.

Tommy doesn’t understand why it is so.

“Everyone move!”

Tubbo, raising his voice, pointedly clears a path through the crowd until he disappears into the centre, crouching next to the body and demanding people to back away. As Tommy approaches as well, he can’t help but first wrinkle his nose at the obvious scent of blood, even though the smell has a rather burnt aftertaste to it. 

Secondly, he can’t help but note how _small_ Tubbo looks beside the--

“Oh...Oh shit.”

As Tommy enters the circle, the unconscious hybrid is slowly revealed to him, and while curled up in a ball, long limbs and monochrome skin give enough of an indication of what they are dealing with. If it were not for the movement of their chest and obvious injuries, Tommy would have called what he saw a corpse.

_A corpse of what appears to be an enderman hybrid, to be specific._

_‘Those exist?’_

“He needs medical attention. Where’s the nearest hybrid clinic?”

The crowd murmurs, not really giving an answer, and Tubbo tries again, barking out instructions and watching as former bystanders finally spring to help. He sounds frantic, a little frustrated, but his voice stays clear enough to have an impact on the group.

Tommy would have sprang to help as well, of course, if it were not for Tubbo being so up close and personal with an injured enderman hybrid. 

He cannot be sure that the stranger wouldn't attack with all the damn eyes upon them. 

Knife held shakily in his hands, Tommy watches as Tubbo gets to work, ignoring the whispers around him, willingly placing himself in the line of fire. 

He’s always been the type to do that, and in that moment, Tommy sees the flaw. 

For a moment, Tommy wonders if Wilbur sees it too.

“Hey…We’re going to get you some help, okay? I know you can’t hear me--” Tubbo breathes in, choking back a distressed bleat at the wounds he’s inspecting, particularly a nasty gash across the hybrid’s forehead. “But you’re going to be alright, okay?”

The stranger, of course, has no way to reply; instead glazed red-and-green eyes, unblinking, stare back at him, lost to the world.

_For now, at least._

Tommy stares at those unblinking eyes, and hopes they'll find some life in them.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double upload this week? Maybe so! I'm a sucker for sprinkling in plot points that will be used later like secret mouskatools, so don't you worry about them too much ;)

Once someone manages to steer a cart into view, Tubbo visibly brightens, racing back and forth as the brave few help to lift the injured stranger into it. To their credit, they are gentle enough that the hybrid doesn’t stir, but Tommy has to wonder if there is something else entirely wrong.

Perhaps he isn’t stirring because he cannot do so.

He swallows hard at the thought, feeling that ghost of a knot tighten within his throat. Lives are a tentative subject, no matter where a person chooses to settle, with some having far more than others and some having no idea how blessed they are. The general rule of thumb, however, is that everyone was granted three -- that golden number, as large or as small as one made it.

Tommy never quite got into the theory behind it. Some say that the lives are tied to the server one is born upon, with the general consensus pointing to most servers’ three lives rule. On some servers, however, there are people who get dropped in with a single one -- like a god’s cruel experiment, they have no wriggle room, no second chances.

It’s awful, but at the same time, it’s life. 

_‘I rather live that one life to the fullest than waste all three of them.’_

It feels heavy, a little intrusive, for anyone to be asking just how long and short one has to live, and as his heart beats on for what is its last chance, he sticks to that sentiment. 

“There! Let’s take this guy to the clinic.” Tubbo’s voice breaks through the haze, causing Tommy to look up and notice that his friend is already sitting in the cart. He takes that as his cue to get in as well, clutching the edge as the (hopefully) friendly driver takes off into L’Manberg. 

For all they know, the stranger is already on their last life, with these injuries fighting between that innate will to survive and the urge to give out entirely. Given that endermen in general are quite passive, only responding to excessive eye contact (and pain) Tommy knows that time is of the essence, though he also hopes that time grants the medics more than enough leeway to figure out how to treat the hybrid at all.

Tubbo, staring down at the stranger, seems to be on the same wavelength.

“Do we...have any enderman hybrids in L’Manberg?” His ears are twitching, giving away the bundled up nerves despite the level voice. Tommy doesn’t respond immediately, so he continues trying to navigate his fears aloud, the world melting away as he does so. “I mean, we don’t have a lot of classically hostile mobs, and I think the nearest clinic may not be well equipped--”  
  
“They’ll have to be.” Tommy’s gaze drops down to the stranger, staring into eyes that hold no signs of consciousness. “Maybe it’s surface level. It looks like it, at least. A regen potion could do the thing, but that gash is pretty nasty.”

Now that he is closer, Tommy can now pick apart what happens to be spread blood and what counts as the wound. The most noticeable wound, of course, is the open gash on the stranger’s head, stretching across their temple and ending along their cheek. It’s hard to tell through the blood staining monochromatic hair, but Tommy can only hope the wound doesn’t extend into the scalp.

“I hope so...I really do hope so.” Tommy misses Tubbo’s nervous glance, but the latter keeps talking, somewhat relieved about it. “Just a few stitches, and he’ll be a-okay.”

The head is a precious part of the body, after all, posing a great danger when harmed.

“Hopefully.”

Tommy knows a thing or two about that.

Time is of the essence.

* * *

When the cart finally stops in front of a small building, the duo spring to action, with Tubbo going inside the clinic to warn the staff, while Tommy stays with the stranger. He pointedly opts to ignore the cart driver, because while he is muttering under his breath, ‘fucking hybrids’ effortlessly pings in his ears. He has gotten used to the words -- they are something that hybrids are required to get used to -- so he refuses to humor the man with a response.

Besides, it isn’t about him, nor is about Tommy; the most important person present was the injured individual between them.

Tubbo bursts back out in what has to be record time, followed by a couple of medics and what looks to be a stretcher. It’s small -- at least small for a hybrid like the stranger -- but the head medic is confident that they’ll make a plan, talking at a mile a minute.

It seems, of course, that he’s highly aware of who he’s talking to, because Tommy and Tubbo soon find themselves in a private room, listening quietly as the same medic gets right to addressing the stranger’s wounds.

“So you’re saying he was found in a forest, sirs?” Steady hands press a cloth drenched in regeneration potion across a nasty cut on the stranger’s shoulder, “It looks like his suit was ripped a bit, like he was struggling, but the major injuries seem to point to blunt trauma. A one hit sort of thing.” 

Tubbo, curious as to how the medic iss working, sits at the edge of his seat, eyes wide and slack jaw hidden behind the medical mask. Due to the mask, his reply is muffled, “We didn’t find him, but the lady who did screamed loud enough that we came over. It could have been a mugging if it’s one hit.”

“Maybe the fucker who did this missed the first time, started chasing and got a hit the second time, yeah?” Tommy ignores the pointed elbow in his side at the swearing, “I mean, there’s no identifying stuff on this guy, right? Money? Papers?”

“Well, when he wakes up, I can discuss that, but medic-patient confidentiality still stands.” The medic seems to pause, before looking over, eyes a little sheepish. “You understand that, surely? I’m sorry about that. It’s the rules.”

Indeed they are. As much as Tommy wishes to know, he won’t blame the medic for doing his job. That’s a dick move, if nothing else.

Tommy is not a dick.

With most of the minor wounds treated, the medic moves to apply more of the salve he placed on first, which, unlike the soaked cloth, was blended with a potent variation of the regeneration potion. When Tubbo asks what it was, still so used to the liquid variants of such an iconic brew, the doctor merely smiles and explains that the salve is to combat evaporation. As a result, it lasts longer, even if the glowing goo looks uncomfortable as it stretches across the stranger’s face.

It seems to be doing the work, though, for Tommy notes the soft rise and fall of the stranger’s chest. They’re alive, at least barely.

_‘Hang in there, buddy.’_

They’re soon asked to leave when an assistant enters the room, handing over the required material to administer stitches. While the medic is grateful for their company (and probably losing his mind by the living legends in his room) he still knows that he has a job to do, politely directing them to the main foyer and promising to update them both once the patient wakes up. It’s not standard procedure, given that the duo are not kin-related, but he bends the rules just this once.

The White House’s address is given as a point of contact, which Tubbo promises to clear as a legitimate message, and the two leave with a few handshakes and slight smiles.

Such is being famous, after all.

Which leaves the duo at a crossroads, free afternoon a little worse for wear and minds trained exclusively on the building behind them. The cart driver has already left the scene, for when they exit the clinic, he is nowhere to be found, but Tommy secretly celebrates that. If he has to chew out some old asshole and his anti-hybrid beliefs, he is quite sure someone else may be entering the clinic soon after. 

It would not be a great thing to see in the rumour mill, but damn, he does miss picking fights.

His stomach growls. “Oh crap...I think I left the bag back at the crime scene. That sucks.”

“It’s alright. We have food at home, right?” Tommy’s face makes Tubbo laugh, but the ram hybrid is already trotting off, calling behind him. “Come on, it’s not that bad. We can make soup.”

“Huh. Sure.” Soup didn’t sound that bad -- hell, he’s hungry enough to down some soup -- but Tommy merely scoffs, nudging his friend’s side once he catches up. “Let’s do that.” 

Together, they walk, disappearing into the crowd once more, and while their conversation drifts to something lighter, that red-and-green gaze still rests in the back of their minds.

* * *

Tommy didn’t hear from the clinic until late in the afternoon, but with Tubbo busy combing through citizen archives for any signs of an enderman hybrid, he’s not surprised when he spots a bound message on his table that bears the clinic’s symbol. Possibly, Tubbo received one as well, but hadn’t seen it yet?   
  
He isn’t in his office, so Tommy assumes it as so. 

Putting aside the papers he had been busy with, the scroll is unbound, revealing a messy scrawl and probably a lot to decipher as a result. Naturally, he makes a face at what he sees, staring at a few words with what feels like unnecessary energy, but once he gets past the greetings and medical fluff, it only seems to get worse.

**I regret to inform you that there’s been an incident.**

“Oh shit.” 

**The patient seemed to be making a good recovery through the night, and while there were signs of them regaining consciousness, it seems that they woke up and decided to flee. No injuries were reported from the staff, but the patient did seem distressed.**

**I am terribly sorry for this. Hopefully, with your connections, they can be found.**

**Once again, I extend my sincere apologies.**

“Ooooooh shit.” Tommy is out of his chair in an instant, clutching the paper in his hand and sprinting towards the main boardroom; on his way, he briefly checks if Tubbo is in his office, but comes up blank. This isn’t as big of a problem, at least in the eyes of the cabinet, but Tommy can’t help but feel a little invested in the random stranger they saved from death. If nothing else, the hybrid _could_ be a threat.

It’s a stretch, of course, but sometimes a little paranoia is healthy.

Tommy slows his pace when Tubbo’s voice comes into focus, entering the main boardroom to a familiar sight. Wilbur, balanced at the edge of the giant table, looks over at a board where Tubbo is busy writing down some offered plans. While the latter is still reaching up to link two bubbles of information with a line, Wilbur merely swings his head side to side, imagination crafting a tune only he can hear. It’s a calming sight, at least, to see the president so engrossed in his own thoughts, for Tommy notices the slight wrinkle on his forehead, eyes slightly narrowed behind circular glasses. 

By the looks of it, the meeting is nothing but casual. 

The arrival of another, however, has Wilbur’s trance broken, eyes blinking owlishly as he turns to greet his little brother. He’s obviously gotten some sleep, because he doesn’t stay where he’s seated, pushing himself off the table with a dramatic yawn. “Look what the raccoon dragged in. Hey, Toms.”

“Hey Tommy!” Tubbo waves slightly, but doesn’t turn away from his mind-map masterpiece, balancing on the tips of his hooves and sticking his tongue out for maximum focus. “Don’t mind us. It’s for the trader agreement.”

_‘Ah.’_ Tommy holds his tongue, tucking the thought away, but once he does reply, he sticks to his current mission. “Well, I just wanted to let you know that the clinic sent us a message, Tubbo.”

“Really?” The hybrid wobbles, letting off a small bleat in surprise, but soon regains his balance. “That’s great. How are they?”  
  
“Well, they fucking bolted.”

“Who?” Wilbur pipes up, “What?”

“Oh, there was this hybrid we took to the clinic. We think they got mugged.” Tommy can feel Wilbur’s gaze on him, intrigued, but he doesn’t turn to face it. “Apparently they bolted, so that sucks.” 

“Oh, so was that why Tubbo was going through the archives?” Wilbur doesn’t skip a beat, raising an eyebrow at the lack of eye contact as he returns to his seat. He’s slow in his movements, impossibly calm despite the obvious curiosity in his voice. “Must be a really interesting guy.”

“Well,” Tubbo starts, and while Tommy wants to glare at him to shut up, he’s still facing the board. “The stranger is the most interesting hybrid I’ve seen. L’Manberg doesn’t get enderman hybrids, right?”

“An _enderman?_ ” Wilbur responds, chin now resting in his palm. His ears are pricked, indicating his full attention.

“Yup! The first I’ve ever seen.” Tubbo nods, briefly looking back. “They are tall like one, kinda fuzzy. Honestly, they look quite young, too.”

“That is pretty interesting.” 

Tommy can’t explain it, but once again Wilbur’s tone feels _off,_ like a parent only asking the question to gain more ammo in a lecture. To Tommy, that’s already a red flag. 

Wilbur may be his older brother, but he doesn’t get to dictate things Tommy isn’t comfortable with.

So, Tommy cuts in, trying to chip away the layer Wilbur is trying to present, while also keeping himself in the clear. “It’d be nice to see more variety, I guess. A few more rarer hybrids are finding it safe to settle here, yeah?”

That piques Wilbur’s interest, for the piglin hybrid turns to face him with a smile, eyes gleaming with glee. “Yup! I saw a family of blaze hybrids not too long ago. Apparently they’ve figured out how to line their accommodations with something fireproof.” 

Tommy has to admit that it’s impressive.

“I mean, the overworld has so many types of hybrids, and while the nether is...well, the nether--” Wilbur continues, gesturing slightly. “--It’s not that bad. I mean, I started there with Techno and look where we turned up.”

The room goes silent, Tubbo coughing into his sweater.

To say that the great Technoblade would enjoy L’Manberg, let alone the nation enjoy him, was a stretch. In fact, it was such a stretch that Tommy wasn’t sure if Techno had left the server entirely, having dropped all contact after the elections.

To Tommy, at least, he hopes Techno isn’t holding anything against them.

Wilbur notes the silence with a sigh, a little frustrated. It’s hard not to be, especially when said silence is caused by his more destructive twin. “Okay, let me rephrase that: Look how many of our goals _we’ve_ completed. They may not align, but they’re impressive to the right people--”

“Hey, I’m not disagreeing, Wil.” Tommy interjects before Wilbur’s mood drops any further, hand up in a gesture of defence. “I mean, all of us here pretty much respect Techno. He’s a fucking badass, but he isn’t the type to rule nations, right?”

The cold chill of a forgotten empire makes those words crumble, but Tommy doesn’t need to mention the Antarctic Empire fiasco to know that Wilbur remembers it vividly.

“Maybe, yeah.”

There’s a gleam in Wilbur’s eye, sharpening under the lights of the boardroom, but when Tommy steps forward to catch a better glimpse of it, Wilbur has already turned away, seemingly laser focused on what Tubbo is writing. Yet, with that offhand glimpse, the heat of it still burns a pretty image in Tommy’s mind, reminding him of the glares Wilbur would send Dream during the war, leaking anger and bravery and pure, unwaverable determination. It’s a familiar sight -- hell, it’s usually that heat that ignites the masses Wilbur hopes to inspire -- but there?

Tommy can’t help but wonder who Wilbur is staring down in that moment. Who, in this world built of ever shifting foundations, garners such a look that promises to move mountains over their graves?

With a glare like that, at least, the fabled antarctic region may have melted on sight.

“Hey, for our enderman hybrid friend, if you see them, maybe we should help them settle in.” 

“What?” Tommy blinks in surprise when Wilbur starts talking once more, having chosen to lay upon the table, face looking at the ceiling. In his current position, he looks almost like some sort of statue, hair spreading out behind him in untamed curls.

He’s probably due for a haircut; Tommy rarely sees Wilbur grow out his hair. “I mean, Tubbo’s kind of going somewhere with them being the first enderman hybrid here, and while I’m not giving special treatment, you did say they got _mugged._ ”

“Well, he has a point. I had a point too...yeah.” Tubbo pipes up, finally turning to face them. He looks a little confused, even if he’s obviously nodding at Wilbur acknowledging him. “Bad reputation and all.”

“Exactly! You take the words right out of my mouth.” 

“Really?” Tubbo beams, blinking in shock.

Tommy raises an eyebrow at that. “So what? We find this guy and bring him in for questioning? I don’t see the need in that, really.”

“Not everything _needs_ a need, Tommy. We’re just being friendly.” Wilbur huffs, eyes rolling slightly. “Who knows, maybe they need some help, and it would be nice to meet his saviours, after all...It must have been a nasty mugging.”

_‘Saviours...Huh.’_

“It was a nasty set of injuries...” Tommy starts. “But shouldn’t we leave that to professionals--”

“Oh, don’t worry about that! I’m sure they’ll appreciate the help. Just got to find them before they hurt themselves, yeah?” Wilbur leaps up, cutting off the words with such precision that Tommy pauses. Seemingly chuffed, the president clasps his hands together, feet carrying him away from the table and towards the door. However, once he almost passes over the threshold, he pauses, energy fading ever so slightly as he turns. “I’ve got a meeting that Big Q set up, so I’ll be gone for the rest of the day. Tommy, Tubbo--” 

The gaze Wilbur fixes them with, barely distorted behind his glasses, is pointed, yet trusting.

_I trust you._

“If you find the enderman hybrid, let me know, okay? I guess I’m invested in the little guy.” Wilbur pauses, “Tall little guy...You get what I mean.”

If Tommy hears himself agree, he only fully registers it when Wilbur is long gone. 

_‘What the fuck…’_

If Tommy rolls his shoulders a little too much long after Wilbur has faded from Tubbo’s mind, he doesn’t address the discomfort aloud.

_‘What the fuck…’_

It’s a long, long time until the end of the day, after all; paranoia would only make it longer. 

Paranoia, however, settles deep within him, lingering long after Wilbur’s form disappears from sight.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New POV!! Not much else to say, but there may be a double upload this week. Maybe Friday?  
> I am feeling inspired ;)

It’s too bright.

He wakes to a bright new world and a dark hole in his mind, both swirling so much that he barely knows where they start and where they end. It’s a marvelous sight, that effortless chaos, and some may have managed to bask in that confusion. Unfortunately, it all comes crashing down when control of his body smashes into his consciousness.

He’s alive.

Oh, gods, he’s _alive._

He tries to speak, but his jaw feels like it is glued shut, barely managing to come up with a garbled growl. His tongue isn’t cooperating with him either, heavy and bloated between his teeth, and it frustrates him. 

The room is too bright, too clean.

He cannot remember why he came here.

He cannot remember where he is.

And yet, through it all, one feeling seems to take precedence. A feeling that, in the last few months, seems to have made itself synonymous with _fear,_ with that soul-crushing feeling that rattles the pearl in his chest. It curls around his ever-shortening breath, panic settling within his weary bones. He hates it -- that feeling of vulnerability -- but he forces himself to focus on everything that he can.

The hybrid known as Ranboo feels pain.

_‘Help.’_ The room, though bright and inviting, only seems to cast a watchful eye on the hybrid the more he stays still, mimicking the beady gazes of onlookers. _Is he being watched?_ He cannot be sure, not with him still being a deadweight on the bed.

He needs to move. To run.

_‘To escape my assailants--`_

The thought slams into him with no mercy, following snippets of an autumn forest clouding his mind and the potent smell of his own blood wafting through the air. _Memories: Possibly his own_. Scattered and out of order, he tries in vain to grab along one of the dangling threads, ignoring the sinking feeling in his stomach that always appears when he tries to remember, but the weight is too large, too familiar and all too consuming.

_`I can’t remember._

_I can’t remember._

_I can’t--`_

  
  


His leg kicks out -- more of a spasm than anything else -- and his body reacts accordingly.

Ranboo feels himself stretch out, claw-like fingers scraping along a wooden floor; by the feeling alone, he knows the bed is too low to accommodate his limbs, but it is not much of an indicator to his current plight. The grooves along his skin are brushed over once, twice and once more, acting like some sort of litmus test for reality. He needs that, especially with his stuttering chest, heaving softly under the covers.

_Weak._ He feels so weak, yet he tries to speak once more, chest heaving while his tongue tries to form words.

_Where?  
_ _Who?  
_ _What?  
_ _How?_

And with those words, permanently glued to the tip of his tongue, he realizes one glaring issue: The weight of a book -- _his book_ \-- is missing.

_‘Where is it? Where is it? Where is it!’_

“Help.” Slowly, a single word escapes him, mouth barely opening to let it out. With it, came all the fear he can expel, voice cracking once he realizes just how pathetic he sounds. 

_‘Pathetic. You’re pathetic.’_

His head hurts.

A shaky hand raises to his face, finding the familiar fluff of hair he’s used to, but as his fingers scrape through it, he skin jumps in protest across a newly formed scar, extending down towards his forehead.

His fingers, naturally, pull away in reflex, caked in some sort of goo. 

_Pain._ At least he knows where it comes from, heavy thuds now present across his temple. His head hurts, but it could have been worse, it seems.

"Help."

Grunting, the hybrid slowly pushes himself to a seated position, sight swirling for what feels like an eternity, but the room looks a little less threatening when he is able to survey it, blearily blinking as he adjusts to the light. To his left, two chairs rest, unoccupied, while the curtains behind them are drawn, obscuring a window. Despite the flowery pattern across the window, cutting out a visual of the outside world, they are unable to mask the chatter of people outside, nor impede the shadows of passing horses and people. 

_Ground floor._ That helps.

He turns his head, suppressing a groan at the effort.

The opposite side of the room, however, gives information that makes things a little less exciting. For one, Ranboo’s eyes fix upon a table laden with medical equipment big and small. From needles to little surgical blades, the plethora of potential instruments of torture only paint a gruesome picture in the mind of the young hybrid. 

It shatters the calm he has steadily been building, fear creeping back into the forefront of his mind.

Illegal pearl harvesting, of course, affects him far more than any hybrid activist.

He panics.

With a garbled cry on his lips, the hybrid finds himself reacting in pure fear, hands scrambling to push himself away from the right side of the room, back catching along a vase sending it topping over. The sound alone is enough to startle him further, body lurching himself forward to get to his feet; in the process, the world, ever so cruel, swirls across a frantic gaze. 

Ranboo stumbles, catching himself on a wall, and lets off a distressed cry once more.

_‘No no no-- Shut up! Shut up!`_

"Are you alright?!"

Voices, naturally, start up beside him, just beyond the door. With them, will come the stares and perhaps the sneers, all so intrusive and all the more nerve-wrecking. The stares, to him at least, have never been happy. So judging and cruel, they watch.

He hates him.

The stares he feels now, as usual, are angry.

_'They're coming,'_ his mind supplies. _'They're coming. Run! Run!'_

Ranboo, for all the good in him, feels himself flee in agreement, and despite the pain, the world goes dark with him.

* * *

The medics open the room to silence, sheets disturbed and the pillow stained with the salve they placed on the patient’s head. A visitor chair rests on its side, knocked over by the room’s previous occupant, but there seems to be nothing else out of place.

It concerns them.

The windows, after all, have to be locked from the inside.

They look to the left, then to the right, jaws slack at the sight before them; it has only been ten seconds since the nurse called out, leaving no time for anything awful to happen.

Despite it all, the windows are locked and the curtains are drawn.

The patient, however, is gone.

* * *

The city is large, but it’s still growing.

Ranboo cannot help but notice the size from the alleyway he chooses to huddle in, occasionally taking a risk and peaking into the street. The darkness calms him just as much as his more mob-like cousins, giving him a semblance of control among a world that seems to have stripped him of that perk. With his memory book stripped away from him, a lot has been left in the air.

A lot has been left open to be manipulated. 

He hates it.

He just wants to find meaning in the madness.

As the sun goes down, he hopes that the streets will clear out more, allowing him free-reign to flee the city as quickly as possible. There’s always the possibility that the room he woke up in still stayed open for his arrival, so putting distance between the place and himself was important.

He could have made more distance currently, of course, but gods, is he tired.

His pearl, a symbol of his fatigue, can barely take another round of teleporting.

Inching his way towards the street once more, Ranboo feels his stomach growl, wincing softly at the sound before opting to ignore it. He cannot eat now, not with his lack of funds and slightly disheveled appearance; no respecting citizen would give him the time of day, let alone offer him a snack. There is a chance that one of the farms on the outskirts had an apple tree to pilfer, so he had to stay focused. 

This is not the first time he’s been a little hungry, after all.

“It could be worse.”

He can survive a bit of hunger.

Tentatively, the hybrid peeks out from his hiding place, expecting nothing much to have changed, and spots the red of an apple.

The apple, unfortunately, is connected to an outstretched paw, which eventually connects to an earnest set of eyes. “What could be worse?”

Ranboo, pupils blown, ducks back with a garbled yelp, falling onto his ass. 

Time seems to slow, then lurch forward, leaving him startled, but alert.

It takes a few moments for the action to register, but once Ranboo does, he focuses on the form before him, who merely chuckles and extends a helpful paw. “Yo, sorry for the scare. I thought you’d seen me the second time you did the peeking thing.” 

Knowing that he was being watched, however, only made Ranboo stiffen.

The stranger notices that immediately. “Wait, wait...I don’t mean to scare you. I just saw you looked a little lost and came over -- Woah, you’re tall.” He pulls Ranboo up, with the latter soon towering over him, but he doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, he only whistles. “Enderman hybrid, right?”

Ranboo, gaze averted, only nods. “Yeah…”

“Oh. Neat.” The words, offered so casually -- so void of fear -- make Ranboo do a double take. The vulpine-looking hybrid has averted his gaze. “Sorry for the staring, then. I’m not really a fan of staring either, but I know enderman really don't like it, so sorry again.”

He seems sincere. 

People generally aren't sincere.

Ranboo finds himself sighing slowly, somewhat shocked at it. “It’s...Alright?” The words _feel alright_ , at least, bolstering his confidence. “Yeah, it’s alright.”

“Great! Still want an apple? You look a little pale.”

With the question, Ranboo tentatively turns his gaze towards the hybrid, finally taking in a friendly face among the fur and teeth. It’s an odd sight, given that most city-dwelling hybrids tend to stay more humanoid than not, so he finds himself openly staring. 

However, he doesn’t answer the question, causing the fox to twitch his ears in concern; to him, that unblinking gaze still has its unnerving gleam, despite the curiosity etched into it. “Uh, are you alright?”

“Oh, yeah.” Startling slightly, Ranboo finally takes the outstretched apple, opening his mouth ever so slightly to nibble at it. While every fibre in his being wishes to unhinge his jaw and eat it in one satisfying gulp, he knows such sights scare others; he has always been highly aware of how threatening he may look to others, and even friendly strangers have their limits.

The apple tastes amazing, though, so he remains grateful for every tantalizing bite. 

“I’m Fundy, by the way.” The fox starts, busying himself with a satchel hanging from his side. “I should be heading back, but well, y’know, you looked interesting. New to L’Manberg?”

“L’Manberg?” Ranboo tests the word on his lips, mind coming up blank on ever visiting the city. It should frustrate him, but after a small sigh, he accepts it. “I...I guess I am new. I don’t remember arriving here, if I may be honest.”

“Oh?” Fundy’s tone isn’t accusatory, yet it implores Ranboo to speak some more.

“Yeah. I have, well, memory problems…” Once he starts speaking, he realizes just how odd that may sound, but instead of shying away, he merely continues with a sheepish laugh. “Mostly short-term, sometimes not, but I kinda just woke up here without the book I use to document everything.” 

A hand runs through his hair, hyper aware of the scar hidden underneath the hastily swept style, but he doesn’t mention the potentially harmful injury. If his head is already scrambled like it is, then nothing else could scramble it further in his eyes. Like a fish in a tank, having the ocean barely phases it, right?

Fundy, luckily, takes the words as is, whistling softly. “That’s awful, man. Do you need any help with that -- a place to stay, maybe a search for your book? It sounds like something that shouldn’t be lost, after all. Wait, here--” He pauses, rummaging through his satchel until he retrieves a pen and some paper. “You can write on this for the time being, right?” 

Ranboo stares at the offered items, floored. It’s in this brief lapse that the half-eaten apple is shoved into a mouth that was previously perceived as smaller, jaw unhinging just enough to pop it in. 

He chews slowly, staring down the items, before swallowing deep. 

It’s quite obvious that he is not used to receiving things, let alone someone giving him things after talking about perceived flaws. “Yes...I can write on that. Thank you.”

“That’s great, then. I don’t have much on me, but if you’d like, I have an extra room where I work with a friend. She’s nice -- trust me.” Fundy pauses, ears twitching. “And she’s got some connections, too. Maybe someone picked up your book and is holding onto it? Maybe not, but I also don’t think anyone would actively try and steal a diary, anyway.”

He laughs, and Ranboo joins in, somewhat nervous.

_‘A place to stay?’_

The enderman hybrid’s mind drifts along the potential offer, trying to quell the innate paranoia that nips at his heels. On one hand, having a place to stay -- even if temporarily -- makes things a little less stressful. L’Manberg is larger than life, after all, superseding the villages he used to have overnight stays in while he travelled. It may be the only place he can find as a complete stranger, let alone a hybrid of a creature considered hostile by the masses. 

On the other hand, he barely knows his current helpers, nor does he know what they could possibly ask for in return. Besides the slightly ripped suit on his back, Ranboo knows he doesn’t really have much to offer. He can’t help but weigh the option on a scale and feel himself rising at the weight of this friendly stranger. 

He isn’t even sure if this friend of Fundy’s will even take him in.

Thus, reluctantly, he lets his concerns be known, keeping his gaze fixed on the wall beside the other hybrid. “Well, it’s a good offer, really, but I don’t know how I would repay you. You’ve been so nice to so far and I--” 

Ranboo pauses, trying to find the right words.

_‘I feel useless.’_

“I don’t have much to offer in return, unfortunately.”

The vulpine hybrid seems to stare at him for a long while, before remembering the quirk with an apologetic squeak, averting his eyes. He seems to be thinking deeply, though, for his ears are as still as can be, focus radiating off of him. Once his thoughts seemingly click into place, he starts speaking once more. 

“Well, if there’s one thing that’s true about L’Manberg, it’s that you can be whoever you want. You’re free to make your dreams happen, no matter who you are.” Ranboo can’t help but note the slight waver in the young fox’s voice, but just as quick as it came, it is swept up by him continuing to speak. “I was born here, y’know? I’ve seen a lot of people settle here and thrive, and some needed a little help. It’s a lovely place, and I won’t ask for anything in return if it means helping someone be a little happier here, alright? Niki’s the same -- she owns a bakery not too far from here, plus there’s a spare room at our place.

“What I’m trying to say is, well, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it at all.” Fundy pauses, making a face. “I guess Niki may ask if you know how to bake, but she generally refuses help from me besides the deliveries, so maybe you’ll do a little frosting here and there. It’s fun, and she’ll definitely pay you for the help.” 

Sharp canines are exposed as he smiles, which gives Ranboo enough confidence to return a smile of his own. 

It’s a small smile, but his words hold more weight regardless, trying to remain level while his body restricts itself from shaking at the prospect. “Well…”

_Perhaps this is, at last, a safe haven? A place he does not need to travel away from when he outstays his welcome?_

_Home._

_Hopefully._ “I’ll take up the offer, then. Thank you, Fundy.”

While he expects Fundy to move away when his primary row of sharp teeth make an appearance, the hybrid only smiles brighter. “Anytime, mister?”

It’s a nice feeling. A great feeling, actually. 

"Ranboo...Just Ranboo." For once, the stare doesn’t rattle his pearl. 

The fox beams.

“Now, I guess you don’t want to be seen, yes? You’ve been hiding here--” Fundy starts up again, making a sweeping gesture into the alley. “So I picked up the vibes. It’s okay though. I can wait.” With that said, he enters further into the alley and takes a seat, wrapping his tail around him and leaning against the wall.

The action, so nonchalant, makes Ranboo laugh; he had not expected the smartly dressed fox to be so casual about it. 

"You're going to get your stuff dirty."

Fundy merely looks over, tipping his hat with a grin. “What? Us sharply dressed folk gotta get our hands dirty a little bit. Luckily for me, I’m not afraid of a little water.” 

There’s no malice in his tone, so Ranboo takes it as intended: a joke. “Lucky you.” Slowly, he returns back to his spot and squats down, wrapping his arms around his legs and staring at the wall. It’s probably an amusing sight, given the length of his limbs, but he doesn’t mind it. It’s comfortable enough to pass off as normal.

“I guess so...At least you can reach the toppest of top shelves.”

_‘Normal? I’d like a little more of that.’_

Ranboo laughs, both at himself and at the joke, and while a paper and pen rest within a clenched hand, he barely notices them long after he’s stepping into a bakery, receiving warm smiles and friendly stares.

Perhaps, for once, things are looking up for him, and he doesn't mind that one bit.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> D-d-d-d-double upload!!! Honestly, I'd planned on making this a bit shorter, but it turns out the plan changed a little, so here we are! From this point on, the ball is going to be rolling, don't you worry.  
> Enjoy, and thanks for reading!

To say that finding a single enderman hybrid is like finding a needle in a haystack baffles him. Tommy, for all his knowledge on the inner workings of the city, cannot really get a true lead on the missing person, even after searching in tight rings around the clinic they were last seen within. It makes no sense, given said person's tall stature among a sea of shorter individuals; someone is bound to have spotted them, right?

Things could have gone a little quicker if he realized that endermen have a neat little feature called teleporting, but that only pings into his mind when he is squeezing through a narrow alleyway, hacking and wheezing at the smell.

_‘Why the fuck was I put on babysitting?’_

He had initially put off the hunt for a couple of days, far too swamped with work to even consider honoring Wilbur’s underhanded wish to meet the stranger. L’Manberg was growing so quickly that the paperwork behind it already looked obscene to the teen, almost making him wish the nation never grew at all. That, however, is only stemming from the exhaustion itself, not the resentment of the whole process. 

L’Manberg is thriving, after all, and it’s all thanks to them.

Things, however, are looking up. Tubbo, at least, has effortlessly befriended the traders as their brainstorming meetings became more frequent, so there is at least some energy within the White House. 

It could possibly drop in atmosphere though, given the awful smell that now clings to Tommy’s clothes, making the hybrid sneeze. With the sun starting to disappear under the trees, it’s about time he gives up the search for the day, causing him to sigh and tuck his tail close. Nobody will trust a greasy little raccoon hybrid in the dead of the night, anyway.

“Nobody would trust a suited enderman hybrid either.” The mutter leaves his lips, dripping with annoyance, but he accepts his defeat nonetheless. 

As Tommy walks, hands trying in vain to brush off any excess dust and grime, he keeps an eye out regardless, briefly noting the warm light of Niki’s bakery down a passing street, before picking out various landmarks on his way back to the White House. There isn’t much to do there, he thinks, so he only plans to stop by and drag Tubbo back home. 

He is not paying attention, mind wandering to distant shores within his thoughts.

Which is why, as he enters through the main door, Wilbur’s call startles him to his core, instincts scrambling to find the tallest point in the room. With his gaze settling on a pillar nearby, Tommy barely registers his leg muscles bunching up, leaping so effortlessly that he scales the shining marble with relative ease. It’s a reflex -- an unavoidable need -- to scale instead of fighting on level ground, so when he finally realizes where he is, chest heaving with unchecked adrenaline, he swears colourfully. 

He looks exactly like a spooked raccoon: ears pricked, teeth bared and tail bunched up. Unlike a raccoon, however, he can voice his opinion. "What the fuck was that for?"

Wilbur, to his credit, merely cracks a smile. “Good to see you too. You look like shit.”

“Fuck you.”

“How’s the weather up there?”

“Seriously though, stop doing that, dickhead.” Tommy is still cussing as he makes his way back down the pillar, gaze averted. “There was no reason for that to be so fucking loud. No reason.” On the brief glance over to Wilbur, he notes that his brother is still dressed for business, tie and all. By this time of the day, at least, meetings were surely over. Not everyone is gifted with Wilbur’s drive, after all; people tended to work with the sun. 

The sun, of course, doesn’t exist in the nether, so hybrids with traits that hailed from there tended not to understand the fuss. 

“I thought you had seen me. Sorry about that.” There’s a smile in his reply, making Tommy roll his eyes, but Wilbur descends the stairs two-at-a-time to greet his brother, voice bouncing across the empty hall. “Here for Tubbo? I sent him home early, since nothing much was happening.”

  
“Oh?” Usually, there’s _always_ something happening, especially regarding the Secretary of State, so Tommy raises an eyebrow at the words. “I mean, that’s great and all, but you’re still dressed up for meetings.”

The words seem to shock Wilbur, eyes darting down to assess himself, but once he does so, he only laughs softly at the sight, as if it’s also news to him. The laugh could have passed by as a normal occurrence if it were not for him continuing, voice a little airy and shoulders shrugging. “That I am. Must have been so quick to leave that I...forgot.”

_'Forgot. Huh.'_

“Really?” Tommy’s eyebrow only raises higher at the reply, arms folding across his chest. That’s weird -- weird as fuck, in fact, which leaves Tommy with more questions on his mind. “What, you got a date or something? Need to impress a woman?”

Wilbur snorts, “Well, more or less -- I am meeting someone, yes.” His hand raises to run through his hair, which Tommy notes as a classic gesture to calm his nerves. There are some habits that seem to be universal among the brothers, after all, starting point and ending point being so close together that it might as well be a loop. Wilbur's nerves, though subdued, are easily picked up by the other. “It’s nothing big. I’ll tell you in the morning.” For Wilbur to even be expressing his nerves as such is a miracle, given just how much of the work he has been shovelling onto himself.

He’s always had something to prove -- something to achieve -- and frankly, Tommy cannot help but think he’s taking the job of being everyone’s hero a little too heavily. 

Which leaves this late night meeting up in the air; while Tommy wants to believe that it’s as casual as Wilbur is playing it off as, he also knows that Wilbur would never do something so casual in an outfit so close to his presidential attire. He is _particular_ by nature after all -- to the point of insanity sometimes -- so _forgetting_ is not on the table. 

Something is not right.

"Hmm..." Thus, Tommy tests the waters, maintaining his tone without much effort. At least to him, being a little breathless after a laugh is on brand for him, masking that bubbling skepticism for his brother. “Yeah, tell me in the morning, will ya? I’d love to hear how you scared a woman when you entered a pub looking like that. Looking like a proper dickhead, yeah, a proper fancy dickhead.” 

Wilbur, however, doesn’t seem to know what he’s thinking, finally looking up with a small smile.

“We’re going somewhere fancy, don’t you worry about that.” The smile didn’t reach the older’s eyes. “Anyway, I’ll be seeing you. Lock up when you leave!”

Tommy barely has enough time to react as Wilbur waltzes past him with a friendly shoulder pat, making the raccoon hybrid splutter on his reply as his mind scrambles to catch up. 

“Wait, are you--” On reflex, however, Tommy manages to grab at Wilbur’s wrist before he’s completely out of range, which startles them both at the suddenness of it all. With it, Wilbur yanks his arm forward, causing Tommy to stumble along with him, and all the nonchalance in the air _shatters._

Time stops.

Wilbur stares.

Tommy freezes.

_They say that nether hybrids have a certain sort of aura, one that rivals those of the overworld in terms of intensity. Born and raised in such a harsh landscape, there are mannerisms that not even Tommy can place correctly, so ingrained into him as intimidation that his little overworld heart balks under the pressure. When he was younger, it had taken them a long time to understand each other’s quirks, usually leading to arguments galore, but Wilbur had always been the best at adjusting to the overworld, even though Tommy failed at the opposite._

_Wilbur had always been the one to understand._

“Please let go.”

“Erm…”

Yet, in this fleeting moment, Tommy has trouble finding the Wilbur he knows, staring into a gaze so darkened that he can barely see the pupils. It seems to burn, untamed, as if the eyes themselves are merely a smokescreen hiding a hellish pit within the recesses of Wilbur’s mind. He’s seen this gaze before -- he’s seen the power that comes with it, as bright as the sun itself -- but gods, Tommy hasn’t been on the receiving end of it.

He can barely talk, barely _breathe_ at the sight pinned upon him, body wishing it could scale the pillar beside them once again. He wants to run -- to hide. If he can do anything but stare back, he would be grateful

And yet, as his mind screams to look away, he finds that he cannot, endlessly trapped in whatever tangible emotion seems to blaze behind Wilbur’s eyes. It’s got a hold on him, that’s for sure, and it’s not letting go.

_Scared._ Tommy’s scared, and he understands why.

Wilbur has never looked at him like he is a threat.

“Tommy,” WIlbur’s voice lowers, barely above a whisper, but he’s smiling. Despite the contradiction formally swirling in his gaze, Wilbur is _smiling_. “I’m going to be late, Big Man.”

It's unsettling, but somehow, it _fits._

The younger, confused, lets go immediately. “Oh, sorry about that.”

Wilbur stares for a little while longer, before he drops his head with a casual laugh.

_It fits._

_Free._ Tommy is free. "I didn't mean to grab you lik that."

The spell is broken, but the effect is still there, leaving a casually smiling piglin hybrid in its wake, seemingly triumphant. Tommy, having averted his gaze as well, does not catch the slight twitch in the man’s smile, as if fish hooks rest in the corners of his mouth, tugging gently. 

A manufactured smile, for glowing embers still have heat.

Triumphant, at least for now. “It’s alright.” Wilbur speaks, shrugging his shoulders once more, but before Tommy can get so much as a reply in, he already has one foot out of the main door. “I’ve really got to go now, so I’ll see you tomorrow. Maybe speak about that hotel you thought of, right?”

“I guess so.” The tiled floors blur under Tommy’s gaze, a sea of white and grey mimicking exactly how his mind felt: lost. He doesn’t know how long he stares at them, sinking deeper and deeper into the blank slate. 

It reminds him of snow, both harsh and wonderful in turn. “I’ll see you…”

It also, of course, helps clear his mind, for he finishes off his sentence long after Wilbur has disappeared from perceived sight, gaze finally turning to face the skyline.

Wilbur has never looked at him like he is a threat, after all, and Tommy needs to know why. “I’ll see you...Soon.”

The White House is locked soon after, and he disappears into the night, just out of sight.

* * *

Tracking Wilbur down is not as difficult as one would expect, though Tommy somewhat wishes it was far more difficult, given the man’s position. 

To Wilbur’s credit, though, the route he takes to his destination is one of the quietest out there, avoiding party districts and immensely populated areas, while steering away from potentially seedy neighbourhoods as well. His stride is quick and full of purpose, making each twist and turn as sharp as ever, so Tommy dedicates himself fully to watching where Wilbur turns, occasionally shooting out an apology at any and all shoulder checks he experiences.

When Wilbur passes by what seems to be the last fancy restaurant on the route, however, Tommy feels his heart sink.

Something was _definitely_ wrong.

The piglin hybrid slows his pace soon after, hands going to rest in his pockets, so Tommy mimics the pace almost immediately. With the chase now more of a stroll, the teen takes his time and assesses the area, mapping out their path in his head. They’re nearing the outskirts, which makes him a little nervous for who exactly Wilbur is meeting, but when Wilbur turns down another street, Tommy only panics more.

The smell of ash hits his nose pretty quickly; besides, with no buildings to buffer the wind tumbling down the ghostly street, there’s nothing left to the imagination. 

Wilbur walks towards Schlatt’s old house, a lone silhouette in the dark of the night, and Tommy almost faints.

“Why…” 

_‘Why?!’_ It makes no sense, reason flying out of the window, but Wilbur doesn’t seem to be afraid of getting jumped. It’s insanity, given the area being unlit and potentially crawling with a lone monster, so Tommy immediately rummages for his pocket knife, all the more willing to save his dumbass brother from certain doom.

It wouldn’t be great if _both_ of them are on a single life, would it?

It wouldn't.

So Tommy follows at a distance, ducking behind a slab when Wilbur stops in front of Schlatt’s old house. The president doesn’t move a muscle as he observes the abandoned building, posture as casual as ever and foot tapping along to an unheard tune. _Waiting_ \-- Wilbur is waiting for something.

Someone, perhaps.

The door, like magic, slowly creaks open, and Tommy covers his mouth.

Someone is there, but once they speak, Tommy's list of potential visitors is scrapped entirely.

“Took you long enough.” There’s not enough moonlight streaming in for Tommy to catch more than a silhouette at the door, but given the tone of the voice, the person sounds quite young, making it all the more confusing. “It’s cold in here.”

Tommy doesn't know them; he cannot identify the voice, muffled behind some sort of fabric. To him, at least, that's a problem.

He usually knows most of Wilbur's allies, after all.

“Sorry about that.” Wilbur, however, remains casual, climbing the short set of stairs and walking past the stranger. “I got held up.”

“That’s overtime.” The stranger huffs, closing the door behind them, and Tommy scrambles forward, hands shaking as he presses himself against the side of the house, just below a windowsill.

He makes himself as small as possible, chest heaving, but breaths eerily silent. 

He cannot get caught -- not like this.

Tommy catches Wilbur’s laugh, but doesn’t know the context; out of the duo, it seems that his brother is the most unperturbed by the scenario, visiting a rumoured terrorist’s house.

There is a lull in conversation, footsteps creaking the wooden floor beneath them, so Tommy holds his breath when Wilbur starts to speak once more, ears straining to catch the words.

He inhales when the voices come within range. “You said you have something for me. News.”

“I do. Bad news for you, I guess.”

“Oh?” The footsteps stop, for a sweeping sound signals that Wilbur has pivoted sharply. “How bad?”

“Well, I’m leaving. New job, new money...Our agreement states that I am to keep my mouth shut, of course, but that doesn’t mean I’m staying.” The stranger huffs, “Not too bad of news, since it was inevitable, but you might want to know this--”

Tommy exhales, then chokes when the stranger starts up once again, eyes bulging in shock.

“--Rumor has it that your Schlatt guy is still around. Might need to drive him further out, at least for whatever you wanted to do. Kinda sucks for you.”

Wilbur seems to have a similar reaction, choking on air. _“What?”_

The stranger gives him enough time to regain stability, it seems, letting the wheezing continue until it fades off into nothing once more. Tommy, hoping he hasn’t been spotted, covers his hand with his mouth, eyes closed. 

The young hybrid is shaking, and he knows it.

“I escorted him way past the border, trust me, but he found his way back apparently. Can’t really be shocked with that, since he has been banned before. He had to have made his way back here without help from you guys; you should have just driven him off the server entirely.”

There is a pause, and Wilbur seems to be taking deep breaths, but the stranger seems to end his speech with a sigh. “I don’t know what you got out of the whole exile thing, but I’m just letting you know...Free of charge.”

_'Exile. Schlatt was exiled.'_

“And...I appreciate it, truly. For the good of L’Manberg, it was a necessary evil expelled.” 

Tommy wants to yell.

“Seems so. You’ve got a pretty good hold on everything. On lock.”

Wilbur's laugh, a little hollow around the edges, only makes Tommy wish to yell louder. “We’re all trying our best, really. I’ll look into it.”

The stranger only laughs back, as if he knows something and will never tell it, but the creaks from the floor start up once more. “Have to respect that, I guess. We all want something and I know you want something too. Live a little, though; life’s too short to be underhanded, but that’s none of my business. I'll tell it like it is, for a price.” 

“Sometimes, it’s better to ask for forgiveness than ask for permission.” Tommy’s shoulders shake at Wilbur’s laugh, then the sound of something clinking. 

_'Emeralds.’_ Tommy's mind supplies, given that the stranger shakes the pouch and the clinks increase tenfold, sound a little melodious. 

“If you say so, former money dispenser. Consider this job done.” The stranger, it seems, is a mercenary through and through. _Underhanded, indeed._ “I’ll leave you to your night, then. I’ll be gone in the morning.” 

“Thank you for your help, truly, even though things went sideways." The hesitation in Wilbur's voice almost feels like it can be plucked out of the air and carved into a weapon, as sharp as the gasp that paired itself with it. _Regret_ , perhaps? Tommy cannot be sure, especially when the words that follow finally bring that weapon down.

Wilbur speaks as he usually does, but the words...

"I...We’d never expected it to spiral as it did, but it has, so we deal with it. We honor the fallen and keep the masses happy. We keep the safe, just like they crave to be.”

Oh, _the words._

Tommy grits his teeth, stifling a yell.

_'What the fuck...What the fuck!'_

The silence is deafening, filling up his mind and swarming with no mercy. Tommy can almost taste it -- the cold realization that things are _not_ right -- and it tastes like the blood of innocents.

That blood, of course, worships the ground Wilbur treads upon.

“It’s a sacrifice you’re willing to take.”

“For the good of L’Manberg.”

_Sideways_ , Wilbur says, as if it is a mere trip on a path -- on his path, specifically.

The Vice President, just as complicit in this game, wants to throw up.

Tommy breathes in -- a shaky, broken sound -- and the world starts up once more.

“What was that?”

_‘Shit.'_

Hell breaks loose.

The creaks start up in earnest, footsteps echoing as the mercenary races to the window. Tommy, ears flattening, immediately breaks into a sprint, ducking behind a large pile of rubble just as a dark figure leans out of the broken window. Shaking, the hybrid keeps himself as small as possible, watching from a crack in a slab as the hooded figure looks to the left, then to the right…

Then, without a word, an axe slams underneath the window sill, embedding itself into the spot he previously occupied. 

Unbothered, the mercenary is primed to kill. "Nothing. Could be a rat."

Tommy’s heart jumps, bile rising in his throat, and his throat stings when the figure finally leaves, causing him to swallow. It stings, but it's better than being headless, or a gory splatter of brain matter on the wall.

He'll count his blessings, given the alternative, so Tommy doesn’t remain any longer, almost on all fours as he runs. He runs, for that axe still rests in the back of his mind, swinging at his skull as Wilbur _laughs._

_Wilbur, for all his talks of peace, had willingly aligned himself with that, not saying a word at thrle potential slaughter._

In fact, Tommy is quite sure his death could have been justified. For the good of L’Manberg, Wilbur had said, all smiles and laughs.

For the good of L’Manberg, he still says, lying through his teeth.

Tommy, for once, wonders what that good is.

_'It’s not for L’Manberg. It never has been, really...Has it?`_ Tommy doesn’t feel the tears streaming down his face, too angry to wipe them away, but he does hear himself cursing into the night, fists clenched and mind reeling from the betrayal.

_'It’s never been for L’Manberg...Oh, Wil, what the hell are you doing?'_

Wilbur, as usual, always has something to prove.

This time, however, he’s doing it in silence, and gods, Tommy hates how that seems to be worse.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything is fine ;) That is all.

_Fundy had been right: Niki was an absolute sweetheart, immediately sympathizing with Ranboo’s unfortunate loss of memory and presumed loss of direction, trying her best to coax the hybrid into staying within the bakery until closing time._

_Ranboo, unwilling to disappoint such an earnest gaze, had found himself folding into a small reading nook in the corner, probably looking like an uncomfortable child who lost their parents._

_It wasn’t far from the truth; in human terms, after all, Ranboo was quite young._

_Just a tall, lanky, lost child._

_So he sat and watched as Niki went through her customers as the sun went down, listening for any indication that her friendly nature was a facade. With Fundy already out of the bakery -- the last deliveries of the day bundled into his satchel -- Ranboo didn’t have to read out the intentions of two people at once, making his skeptical heart a little lighter._

_It was a relief, especially with his head still pounded slightly, reminding him that he needed all the brainpower he could muster._

_People were complex -- strange and wonderful in all forms, but just as easy to read incorrectly. The kindest man in theory could also harbour the cruelest soul, presenting himself like a gorgeous masterpiece, but drawn with the blood of innocents. Pretty from afar, but pretty gross up close, they roamed servers big and small, leaving chaos in their wake and maintaining smiles from their peers._

_Liars: they were liars._

_Ranboo had all the right to fear the berserkers -- the ones who could swing an axe and fell any person without remorse -- but the sweet-talkers? The silver tongued individuals of the world?_

_Those people should be the true fear-inducers._

_Niki, however, didn’t stop impressing him, even if it was obvious that it didn’t seem to be the aim._

_Her words held no ill will; Ranboo could hear it. “You’re not allergic to any sort of berries or nuts, right?”_

_“Oh...not that I know of.”_

_“Then this will probably be a little tasty before dinner.” A berry-filled pastry was placed on the table once closing time finally rolled through, and Ranboo glanced up briefly as Niki sat down, rubbing her hands on her apron. “Sorry about that. I hope the customers didn’t bother you much.”_

_They hadn’t, with most not even noticing him pressed into a corner, lanky limbs a little awkward as he sat in one of the chairs near the reading nook._

_They hadn’t been a problem even if they did spot him, because none of them stared._

_Ranboo glanced up again, noting that Niki kept her gaze respectfully on a potted plant nearby, and smiled slightly at the thoughtful gesture. “No no no, it was fine. I’m glad they like coming here.” His pause was brief, focusing on the pastry. “It’s a nice place. Thanks...for the pastry.”_

_“It’s the least I can do...Fundy says you’ve had a rough couple of days.” Her words are earnest, oozing concern and only wishing to help._

_She’s one of the good ones; he could tell._

_“I have.”_

_“Maybe things will start looking up...”_

_He was relieved to see that Niki Nihachu did not seem to hold any ill intentions, which made the hybrid a little less skeptical when she continued with the offer to stay at her place with Fundy. As mentioned prior, there was a spare room he could use, but she did add that there was an assistant role at the bakery if he wanted it._

_“--You know, just to get you started here, if you want to stay in L’Manberg. Maybe you’ll gain your memories back if you're less stressed, too.”_

_Ranboo wouldn’t say that he baked often, only taking advantage of village bakeries when he found one, so when he told Niki that, he was surprised to hear that she was willing to teach him, too._

_It floored him, if he was honest._

_Kind -- she was truly just like that -- and the hybrid had to respect it._

_Ranboo, of course, accepted the offer._

* * *

_His new memory book was bound with the most sturdy leather they could find, a strong, grey lock holding it closed and thus keeping it away from snooping eyes. Ranboo didn’t know the feeling he had experienced when he saw it on his bed, wrapped neatly in a purple bow, but as he ran his hands over the empty pages, then fumbled with a key that was threaded through a chain, he slowly understood the flutter in his chest._

_It was pure, unadulterated happiness._

_Bliss._

_Things, for once, were looking up._

* * *

Days pass as expected, with the initial days in the bakery being just as Ranboo expects. Baking for oneself is far less stressful than baking for the public, so Niki keeps him doing tasks that will not be world-ending when she notes the nerves radiating off the young hybrid. It’s in this plan, however, that she finds that Ranboo is a whizz at baking cookies. 

Ranboo doesn’t mind churning out batches of them until the sun goes down.

The routine, after a couple of days, makes Ranboo feel far more stable than he’d ever been, usually keeping to himself in the back room or spending some time chatting to Niki or Fundy when the day slows down. It’s quiet and a little lonely, but he finds himself being at his calmest.

It is in his best interest to avoid customer interaction, given his appearance and aversion to staring, so when he hears that Niki has a prior arrangement, leaving himself and Fundy in charge of the bakery, he panics a little.

It’s a lot to take in when a routine is shattered.

Fundy, naturally, notices, turning away from the door when Niki says her goodbyes. “Hey...It’s alright. She’ll be back soon. It’s just a quick meeting.” A paw comfortingly pats at Ranboo’s shaking arm, expression concerned. He genuinely looks apologetic, making the whole scenario ramp up the guilt in Ranboo’s mind.

_‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be like this -- I’m sorry!’_

Ranboo, shifting out of his frozen state, merely jumps slightly, before nodding once. He’s not _scared_ , right? He’s just afraid of disappointing her, of making them both regret helping him.

He likes this -- all of this -- even if he’s afraid to say it.

_He can’t disappoint them, right?_

Those pesky thoughts say otherwise, but he shuts them out, a little nervous and a lot more stubborn.

People aren’t _that_ bad.

_‘Breathe, Ranboo.’_

The hybrid takes a deep breath.

“Right.” Ranboo sighs, glancing at the back room. His makeshift safe haven will have to wait, as well as his routine. “Do you need to do some deliveries? I don’t mind, uhm, holding the fort for a bit. There are cupcakes in the oven, but they’ll need to cool anyway, so they should be ready for icing when you get back?”

Fundy’s ears perk up as he nods, though he still looks concerned, if not nervous. “Ooh, that makes sense. I’ll be as quick as I can.” As the hybrid sidesteps the other to grab his satchel, he continues. “I should be back before lunch, I swear.”

Ranboo’s gaze darts towards a clock, seeing that there are a couple hours until such, so he nods. “Alright.”

“Don’t burn down the place while I’m gone, but if you do, blame it on me...It’s not the first time.”

“Oh, okay -- wait.” Ranboo makes a noise in the back of his throat, whirling around to fix a shocked gaze upon Fundy, only to see that the fox hybrid is already bent over, stifling a bout of giggles. 

Childish. The fox is childish. “Oh gods...You should see your --” A snicker forms, soon dissolving into wheezes. “-- Your face.”

Ranboo sighs, but a smile cracks along the edges of his mouth when he ducks his head. “Haha.”

Maybe alleged arson jokes are funnier than expected.

“My jokes, of course, are on fire.”

Awful puns, however, are up in the air.

Ranboo’s laugh finally breaks through, and Fundy beams, waving behind him until the door to the bakery closes. Once the hybrid finally realizes that he’s alone for the first time in a couple of days, Ranboo’s chest still feels light and his mind feels sharp.

He’ll be okay. 

It’s only a few hours.

* * *

All things considered, everything is fine.

The bell rings, signalling the sixth customer to enter since Fundy left, but Ranboo is too busy icing cupcakes to notice at first. Hands relatively steady, he gently pipes out the delicate swirls like Niki instructed him to do, leaning back once the last in the batch is completed. 

He’s beaming -- body shaking out the pent up stress -- and the sight could probably warm the heart of anyone watching.

In that time, he doesn’t notice how the customer freezes at the door, seemingly shocked, before making their way over to the counter.

The customer is smiling. 

All things considered, everything is fine.

“Well, you’re a new face around here.

Ranboo looks up briefly, before looking away with a sheepish laugh. “Oh, yeah...I’m new.”

“That’s nice. Welcome to L’Manberg, friend.” The words make Ranboo look over once more, a little shocked, but the customer merely nods his head in confirmation. He had meant to drop the word _friend_ in, at least, all smiles and casual tones. “I mean...Any friend of Niki’s is a friend of mine, but I’m getting ahead of myself, aren’t I?”

_‘A little ahead, yeah.’_ Ranboo keeps the thought to himself, taking another glance at the customer, who now leans his hip on the front counter.

He looks human at first glance, having no instantly defining features that pin him as a hybrid, but Ranboo soon catches glimpses of things that pin the stranger as merely human-adjacent. For one, the customer’s ears are larger, their pointed shape reminding him much like the piglins down in the nether. It’s a little less rare to see nether hybrids up in the otherworld, but the rarity is impressive nonetheless; no nether-based society enjoyed hybrids, let alone raised them.

The End, of course, is quite similar, if not worse. 

Ranboo realizes he has zoned out when the stranger coughs softly, though the sound is not meant to show frustration in the slightest. In fact, Ranboo notes that the other hybrid merely nods at the display case encouragingly, as if he is more than aware that Ranboo is new at this job. 

He seems nice, despite acting prematurely on the friendship side of things. “Oh! Sorry, what can I get you, sir?”

The hybrid merely stares back, blinking slow, before averting his eyes, “You’re an enderman hybrid, yeah? Part of them, at least. Pretty neat. The traits are pretty obvious.” 

There is no malice in his tone, only genuine intrigue, so Ranboo responds with a small nod. He doesn’t mind others asking, but only if they’re nice about it. Compliments, of course, usually go a long way, but this one doesn’t hit as solidly as the usual type. “On my mother’s side. Piglin hybrid, yeah?”

“That’s me.”

“Grew up in the nether?”

The stranger’s expression, for what it's worth, would have convinced a neutral party pretty well, barely shifting out of its casual smile, but when Ranboo lifts his head and risks another observing glance, he sees the crack almost immediately.

A slight tick in the stranger’s jaw forms -- a blink and miss affair. He has yet to answer, but in that brief moment, Ranboo knows the words are about to be doctored. 

“Born and raised a little, yeah, but the overworld is my home. It’s a tricky sort of life, isn’t it?”

Perhaps the man had been kicked out of his piglin clan, or even his human one, for being a hybrid? Ranboo has heard the stories.

_‘Perhaps.’_

Ranboo finds himself changing the subject, though he files a few thoughts away for future inspection. “Oh, it is. This nation is pretty diverse, though. It’s nice to see.”

He seems to have chosen right, for the stranger perks up almost immediately.

“I’m glad you do! We work pretty hard on this place, and trust me, it’s only up from here.” The stranger is enthusiastic about his words, making Ranboo nod in agreement, but he continues with a bright smile before the enderman hybrid can reply. “If you’d like, I know a few people who do tours around here...Though I guess Fundy has that covered, huh?”

“Fundy does tours?”

“Well, not exactly. My son is all over the place these days, but he does love showing people around. A chip off the old block, he is.” The stranger chuckles, seemingly unbothered by Ranboo’s jaw slacking ever so slightly. In fact, he seems pretty aware of the thoughts probably racing through the other’s head in that very instant. “Maybe, someday, he’ll be president, too.”

Ranboo’s jaw unhinges fully, showing a double row of sharp teeth, but his gaze is far from menacing. 

_‘President?!’_

That was a lot to say at once. “Oh...That’s nice.”

What else does one say to the fucking president, after all?

_‘Oh gods, I’m living with the president’s son.’_ So much for staying under the radar.

The stranger glances over knowingly, eyebrow raised, and extends a hand. “Oh, I’m Wilbur, by the way.” The hand stays out, waiting until the larger hand gently returns the handshake. In contrast to Ranboo’s cool touch, Wilbur’s hand feels warmer than expected, showing off his nether roots. “Seriously though, any friend of Niki’s is a friend of mine. I meant it.”

“And Fundy, too?” The distinction confuses Ranboo for a moment, making him hang onto every word that Wilbur says. To him, the discussion is a little too jumpy, offering a sense of security that may be a little false. If it were not for the rehash of a potential friendship, echoing that odd sentiment he felt before, he thinks he may have been ensnared.

Yet, like a curious fish, he still circles the shining bait with his words, launching out a question.

_It’s quite odd that Fundy never mentioned his father’s position, after all._

The bait loses a bit of its sheen when Wilbur shrugs, hand brushing away something in the air. “Same old, but somewhat different, since I’m his father.” He pauses. “I have to make sure he doesn’t fall in with the wrong crowds, right? That he does not make hairbrained decisions. He’s a smart lad, though...A good one, too. If he likes you, then I like you.”

That seems like high enough praise, so Ranboo ducks his head, a little embarrassed. “He is a nice guy, yeah. Niki’s nice, too.”

He laughs, a little nervous, but Wilbur’s casual laugh seems to calm that taut nerve. Perhaps, in this conversation, he’s not looking as suspicious as Ranboo previously thought, bait nothing more than a misinterpreted read. 

Paranoia, however, is a bitch of a smokescreen remover, especially paired with unchecked memory loss.

Wilbur rests an elbow on the counter, yawning wide enough to show the makings of filed down tusks. Ranboo notices them immediately, given his own teeth being an oddity among the general public, but he says nothing about them. When it came to hybrid lifestyles, he generally accepted all types of expression, just as long as they were not hurting themselves.

By the looks of it, Wilbur was more than happy to look a little more human. “I’m just, well, shocked.” The president pauses, as if gathering his words, before shrugging. “What are the odds...Such a lovely newcomer crossing my path. You see, the nation has grown so quickly that I can barely see everyone. I kinda miss just -- you know -- helping everyone personally.”

“That’s...quite noble of you.” It is, given Ranboo’s own thoughts on functioning in society. 

_Choose people_ \-- that’s his _thing_ , his personal anchor to the universe as a whole. To hear someone deep within a government somewhat missing that freedom, well, it makes him nod in slight sympathy.

If Fundy was so willing to help a stranger, perhaps Wilbur is, too.

“No, no -- there’s no need for calling me that.” A hand waves out, dismissive, and Wilbur laughs lightly at the compliment. Ranboo, however, notes that the hybrid’s ears are perking up, potentially showing happiness. “My goal now is to make everyone calm and safe in this sanctuary. To preserve the futures of everyone, I suppose. Once I complete that, then I’ll consider being called noble.”

Ranboo, perhaps, would have agreed, but the hybrid finds himself sighing at one tiny flaw that sticks to the back of his mind. 

However, instead of keeping his thoughts to himself, his mouth opens instead, mind too busy to notice he is replying.

“It’s a nice thought, sir, but isn’t it healthier to, I don’t know, tackle things one-at-a-time?” Assuming that no orders were being made instantly, Ranboo turns to fetch the tray of iced cupcakes with the intention to display them for purchase. “I mean, you can’t make _everyone_ happy for long, but doing your best for the bunch in the time that you have still matters.”

“True, true...But as we fix things, there’s less to be sad about. That’s the goal.” Wilbur stiffens behind him, a hidden fist clenching just out of sight. “We avoid any and all explosive scenarios, so to speak.”

The enderman hybrid misses yet another tick in Wilbur’s jaw.

Ranboo hums, blissfully unaware. “It’s a pretty nice goal, sir. I somewhat agree with it.”

“We need more people like you.” The fist unclenches slowly, oozing a certain sort of awareness, but Wilbur seems to shift back into his casual manner when Ranboo’s sight drifts towards him, “Wait -- I never caught your name, did I?”

“Oh, right. I’m Ranboo.”

“Just Ranboo?” The enderman hybrid nods, causing Wilbur to nod back. “Well, Ranboo, I like you. I mean, you’re friends with my friends, so that’s a good thing in my book. You see, we’re all somewhat young and dumb, protecting a fledgeling nation, and I’d love to have fresh faces...New perspectives, per se.”

“Oh?” Ranboo looks away, a little flustered, but ears pricked nonetheless. 

Wilbur takes the sight as a sign to continue, eyes bright.

“Oh yes. Nobody thought that a ragtag group of hybrids could win against Dream and his greater empire, but we did. All we wanted was a place to call our own, and now it’s a safe haven for many. I want to preserve that, of course...But I cannot do it alone. I don’t want to do it alone, anyway..” 

Wilbur is impossibly smooth with his delivery, voice rising and falling with _just_ the right accuracy, leaving Ranboo to wonder just how many times he has led a question like he is currently. Out of all the people behind him, how many had been pulled into the fold like he is?

“The End is closed here -- Dream said so, on the order of the god he serves -- but I’m sure your home server never had its issues with it, yes? For me, at least, the nether stays the same usually, no matter what server it is, and especially no matter what god manifests upon it, old or new.” Wilbur breathes, and Ranboo winces when he notes the grief in Wilbur’s voice, only to catch that hidden resentment. “Personally, it’s something that makes me a little sad.”

“...Fair.”

His memory may be shoddy, but Ranboo knows enough about the servers that stretch across his chaotic universe, held together by stories passed down from generation to generation. There are many -- hundreds, if not thousands -- all scrambling to latch onto the grace of the energy that powers them all. Ranging from anarchist hellscapes devoid of reason and abandoned by the gods, to lush landscapes thriving with visitors and the illusion of infinite lives, all servers have their purpose and their reverence. From the smallest private server to the largest of community run titans, they thrive, all under a hidden god’s residual gaze. 

Or so they say.

While travelling between them can be perilous, with most locked behind unseen walls and accessed only through the grace of the server’s chosen owner, the gods that lurk within them are generally unseen -- rarely existing inside the minds of others besides in folktales and server mysteries.

To uncover an untouched server is to unlock potentially unlimited power, while those who managed to do so merely become protective over what they found. Ranboo has always wondered how that must have felt -- how, in Dream’s search for status, he supposedly gained the favor of a deity -- but there are some things not even he can answer.

It’s quite _odd_ , at least to Ranboo, that the server’s resident deity closed the End specifically, but he somewhat understands why. If so many people enter a server, the End Realm is a dangerous place, and that can kill a server’s status pretty quickly.

With that said, Dream is supposedly only following the orders of the server’s natural administrators: to serve them and protect their land. 

Unless, of course, he is a liar, or perhaps a coward hiding behind folktales...Control is a tricky thing.

Maintaining it alone is even trickier.

The End, naturally, holds wonders that make normal men _feel_ like gods. It can free the shackles of control almost effortlessly, sometimes. Perhaps, in this server, that was a disaster waiting to happen.

What is a god to a non-believer, after all? 

“I mean..:” Wilbur’s words, ironically, somewhat hint at it as such -- that the stories of vengeful gods do not phase him. “There’s never been true unity here, not with people like Dream meddling with budding democracies -- few places want hybrids of all types living in harmony, and we managed to put down the building blocks for it right here in L’Manberg, even after a war with the server’s resident _suffocating_ empire. L’Manberg...She’s special.”

If the End is ever opened, Ranboo doesn’t wish to think about the implications. “It’s...It’s a special place, yeah.”

“It is...And maybe you can help it, too.”

To Ranboo, this recruitment tactic, while expertly presented, rattles his pearl. 

“What I’m trying to say is that, well, I’d be delighted if we can get to know each other better. Share stories, swap thoughts…” The president pauses, shrugging his shoulders, before risking a true meeting of their gazes. With it, Ranboo notes that despite the man’s words feeling a little off, Wilbur’s gaze gives off waves of genuinity. Wilbur, at least, believes the other can be an asset. A welcome one, at that. “One hybrid to another.”

In another world, Ranboo would have trusted him.

“I’ll think about it.”

In another world, the distant voice in his head, ever so paranoid, would let him accept the offer.

“I see…”

Seemingly satisfied, Wilbur straightens his posture, grin lighting up the room as he nods. He seems ecstatic despite the answer still being neutral, as if the smallest of tugs on his mental fishing rod are enough to score a meal, and Ranboo notes that with a little envy. Confidence, after all, gets someone a lot of interesting opportunities.

Confidence, of course, also hurts opportunities. “Well, that’s great. If you’re ever looking to share a bit of wisdom -- maybe offer a way on how we can welcome more hybrids like you into L’Manberg...I’d love to hear about it.” Wilbur claps his hands together, rocking on his heels. “It’s lovely to meet you -- truly lovely -- and I think I’ll just grab a couple of those mini raspberry tarts before I go. Lunch hour soon, right?”

Ranboo turns to the clock, only to be shocked that Wilbur’s observation was right. “Raspberry tarts...Coming right up.”

“Thank you!”

The conversation stays relatively quiet up until Wilbur is leaving the bakery, which Ranboo uses to gather his thoughts. 

Wilbur, naturally, pauses at the front door, throwing a farewell over his shoulder. “Stay safe! Until next time, and please, the offer still stands..”

He barely registers Wilbur’s final wave as the door shuts, now alone and a little rattled at the whole ordeal.

He shouldn’t be rattled -- he knows this, deep down -- but he is, and that is worth investigating. _Was it the talk about the End? His potential home, given his heritage?_ He cannot be sure, not when the conversation still hinged on helping the people.

Helping L’Manberg: Wilbur’s presumed creation.

Wilbur, for all intents and purposes, is neither planning war, nor calling for bloodshed; instead, he extends his hands to strangers, offering to listen to their voices and boost them. That makes sense in a leader, right? It makes sense, and Ranboo wishes to agree. 

Oh, how he wishes, but he cannot, locked into a question that swarms across all others, unapologetic in its delivery.

On the ladder to personal success, some people are kind enough to pull up others, but when one reaches the top...The greatest test begins. 

Wilbur, to him at least, seems to be at the top already, but still has hands reach up...And up, and up.

He wishes he could ignore it -- the question floating just out of sight.

The president may seemingly think like him, sure, but something blocks his way.

* * *

Something hidden among Wilbur’s words seems to sink deeper than any surface level bait, and once Ranboo finally gets the time to document his day in his memory book, the hybrid underlines a single question multiple times, a little satisfied when he reads it over.

Nestled between other thoughts, the question stands true, and Ranboo lets it dry on the page with a nod.

It stares back at him, nerve-wrecking, but somehow, it makes sense.

It makes so much sense.

The amount of sense it makes, however, scares him. As his eyes run upon it for what has to be the hundredth time, the gravity of the accusation only weighs him down further. 

**Can one dethrone a god by rising above them?**

By the sound of it, Wilbur’s more than willing to test that hypothesis, but if the young hybrid is to understand, he needs more. 

_'I need so much more.'_

Ranboo, heart heavy, needs information, and it looks like nothing good can come out of seeking it..

If he ever accepts Wilbur's offer, it would be wise to know what he is fighting for, after all.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soooooo, how we feelin'? (i say this, still yelling at all the current dsmp lore that has dropped)
> 
> at least here, everything is fine :)  
> so let's continue
> 
> cw // light(?) gaslighting, nightmares

_ The axe is back, of course, sharpened edge swinging slow enough to dodge, but his feet stay firmly planted in place. It hurts -- he knows it will hurt if he doesn’t move -- but the dream is cruel as the axe swings closer. It moves ever so slowly, but full of purpose. _

_ He’s going to die, and frankly, he’s afraid. _

_ “Please--” His voice falls on deaf ears, darkness obstructing the face of his attacker, and with every plea, the axe only seems to grow in size. Endless and consuming, he finds that turning his head to the side doesn’t obstruct the blade’s ever nearing path. He can still see it, and the axe continues to move. _

_ He is surrounded. He is alone. _

_ Tommy is afraid.  _

_ And yet, in the darkness he hears a voice, crawling up his body like a snake, only to curl around his throat. It hisses low; if it's amused or concerned by his plight, he cannot tell, but Tommy can swear there are tears in his eyes at the sound. _

_ He doesn't know why, but the voice rises with each choking sob, deceptively soothing. _

_ It makes his skin crawl. _

_ At first, he hears it to the left, distant. “You did this to yourself, Tommy.”  _

_ Twin weights rest on his shoulders, then wrap around his ankles. He struggles, but he cannot move.  _

_ “You should have listened. It’s all you, Tommy...You do this to yourself.” It comes from his right this time, closer. _

_ He can’t move. Oh, how he can’t move. _

_ “You always do this.” _

_ He wants to move. _

_ “You need to listen.” _

_ He wants to run. _

_ “It’s your fault.” _

_ He wants to scream. _

_ But he cannot. _

_ A hand reaches out from the darkness, palm warm to the touch as it cups his cheek and guides his gaze back to the blade.  _ _ He knows this is false comfort, yet Tommy leans into the touch. _

_ He leans in, staining their fingers with tears, and a thumb runs gently under his eyelids. _

_ His final, desperate plea leaves chapped lips. “Please…” _

_He wants to wake up._

_ He's scared.  _

_ “Oh, Tommy…” _

_ In his ear, Wilbur’s gentle voice now holds nothing but apathy. Time has run out.  _

_ “I’m so sorry...You should have been better.” _

_ His brother's heavy hands seem to sink his feet deeper into the dark, unforgiving , and as the blade picks up speed, Tommy finally finds it in himself to scream. _

* * *

The axe never connects, since Tommy’s eyes fly open and shatter the illusion long before metal meets flesh, but the pain tears onto him regardless. As he breathes, there is an uneasy prickle across his forehead, reminiscent of an arrow flying clean into his skull. The reminder only makes him more queasy. 

He hates it -- the shallow breaths, throat tight while his heart beats a staccato rhythm -- but there’s not much he can do.

He is tired, but with it, he is afraid.

Through labored breaths, Tommy manages to curl up, and once everything clears, it doesn’t take long for the hybrid to start his little chants. Alone and without assistance, he has found them to be sufficient, if not therapeutic. 

They are the only thing that helps maintain an anchor to reality, keeping him awake whilst leaving Tubbo to sleep.

“You’re okay. You’re alive.” 

There is, after all, nobody he can trust yet. 

“It’s...It’s just a dream. Everything is fine.”

He hates that he can’t trust Tubbo. ' _Not yet.'_

“Everything is fine.”

He stutters on the last sentence, sucking in a breath, so he stubbornly repeats it to himself until it feels right. 

_ 'It has to feel right before it sounds right, right?' _

At least for a little while, he can lie to himself.

“Everything is...fine.”

It isn’t, and he knows it.

Everything is not fine, and as the second night of constant terrors finally bleeds into day, Tommy knows he’s going to have to tell someone what he saw eventually.

He needs to tell someone that Wilbur  _ lied. _

The mercenary's axe hasn’t left his dreams since that fateful night, oftentimes seeming bigger and sharper under the exaggerated gaze within his mind, but always drenched in what he knows is his blood. With it came Wilbur’s disembodied voice, all knowing and all powerful, but just as fear inducing as the physical threat before his dream-self’s gaze.

There’s something quite visceral about the sights and sounds, especially with the knowledge he holds on fatal wounds -- the feeling in its true form, stemming purely from the pain of losing his first life, makes each sleeping breath all the more painful. When he’d died both times, there had been a comfort in knowing that Wilbur was beside him; with his dreams, each word he speaks manages to feel like the song of death itself.

He hates it.

“Everything is fine.”

Tommy, once again, refuses to sleep.

Curled up in his protective ball, Tommy stares at the wall until the sun casts a sliver of its light upon it, signalling that the day has crept into sight once more. There’s no fighting it this time -- for sleep has become a tortuous event of his own making -- so his mind shakily forces him to his feet.

It’s been two nights with possibly a few hours of sleep between them, and frankly, Tommy knows he’s not in the best position for a third.

“Everything...Is fine.”

There’s only one thing that seems to be of use to remedy his issue.

He needs sleep, and gods damned, he’ll get it.

_ ‘Are you sure, baby brother?’ _

Thankfully, he ignores the urge to scream when the intrusive thoughts refuse to leave, and maintains that up until an improved ghost looms before him, barely recognizable.

A building: his saving grace.

“Hello, Camarvan.”

* * *

There are few sites within L’Manbergian territory that have the impact that the Camarvan has, and Tommy knows it. While the original van stands upon a patch of grass as hundreds line up to view the declaration within it, Tommy turns his gaze away from the site and focuses upon the towering structure behind it.

Camarvan Incorporated: L’Manberg’s flagship potions brewery.

It had been a group effort in the early stages, given the sentimental value that the van held in their lives, but as the numbers grew larger than what the original Camarvan could supply, it didn’t take long for Quackity to suggest that the structure be retired. After all, it technically was the closest thing they had to a cornerstone for L’Manberg’s existence, so it had reasons to be preserved.

And preserved it was.

Tommy wishes he could remember Quackity’s proud grin quite fondly, but with it, he only sees Wilbur standing beside him, hand on his shoulder.

He shakes the thought away, huffing softly.

However, with the decommissioning of the Camarvan, came the structure before him, making leaps and bounds in producing potions at highly efficient rates, as well as leading studies into uncovering new variants. Tommy has to admit that the speed at which it grew was impressive, oftentimes coming back to vast improvements on potions he had previously deemed useless, but such discoveries were not what he came to see.

The nation needed potions of a casual nature -- of swiftness, fire resistance and water breathing, to name a few -- but Tommy wants to  _ sleep. _

And with it, he also wants no dreams.

The lobby greets pleasantly him as he enters, and on of the plucky receptionists gives him a small wave as he strides towards the main door. He waves back, faking a smile, which she mimics with something far more genuine.  He's tired, sure, but they're just doing their jobs. They all are, at the end of it all.

With his status within L’Manberg, there are few places he cannot waltz into unannounced, and luckily this is one of them, so as he goes through the paces of putting on a mask and gloves, nobody bats an eye.

Tommy, weaving his way through the building, finally spots a reason to stop.

“Tommy?” Fluffy wings, almost golden under the light of the workshop, fold behind Quackity’s back as he does a double take, smile brilliant. “Yo, my man, what brings you here?”

_ 'So much for keeping a low profile.' _

“Oh, hey Big Q…”

All things considered, this chance meeting isn’t the most awful Tommy can experience, watching as the man slowly weaves his way over, previously busy with some of the brewery’s workers across the room. He’s dressed down, blue overalls stained with scattered drops of potions, but between the lack of pixelated facial features and wings being out, Tommy knows the other is still in business mode.

Quackity may have the traits of a trickster, just like most shapeshifters, but he knew when to use it. 

“Hey...I didn’t expect you to be here.” Tommy’s ears twitch as Quackity comes to a stop before him, and he notes that the shapeshifter appraises him quietly. “Nothing at the White House?”

“Nothing that needs my attention, so I’m down here for the day.”

_ ‘Great.’ _

Not great. 

Tommy nods, turning towards one of the many cabinets lining the walls -- within it, newly brewed positions sit, ready to be shipped out to various trading shops within the nation. “Well, erm, I was sent to fetch a few things. Turns out that Tubbo’s having trouble sleeping, since he’s always working...Y’know.”

The lie almost rolls off effortlessly, but Tommy notes Quackity’s shift in stance immediately.

"Really..."

The room’s noise seems to blur out once the other replies, already sounding skeptical. “Oh, that sucks man. So he’ll try a drowsiness potion or two? Those usually work for me.”

“Well, sure.” Tommy already knows three bottles rest neatly in the nearest cabinet, heart soaring. “He’ll probably mask the taste with honey or something. That stuff is awful.”

“That it is.” Quackity’s laugh is brief, but effective. “Tastes like ass.”

A brewer beside them coughs, ducking his head to stifle a laugh -- luckily for him, the two aren’t  _ that  _ professional. 

Tommy gains enough confidence to smile. “I mean, have you tried any? It’s like drinking elder guardian piss, or something.” He already had a sneaking suspicion on the source of the potion's power, given how the drowsiness it induced seemed awfully similar to the abilities of those creatures, but Tommy hadn’t been privy to that knowledge for security purposes.

It annoys him, but such were the rules. 

He can, at least, humour the man in charge of the place, who immediately barks out a laugh at the comparison. “I swear it’s not that. I’d rather die of sleep deprivation than drink that.” Quackity’s wings shiver as he laughs, a series of little wheezes peppering themselves into the sound, but once he regains his composure, he seems to shrug. “Then again, I could be lying.”

Ever so briefly, his face morphs back into a crude black smile, face smooth besides the aforementioned marking.

An eye, somehow, winks.

Tommy rolls his eyes, “You’d be a bitch if you were lying. A piss drinking bitch, too.”

“I know what you are, but what am I?” As quick as his face morphs, Quackity replaces it with something acceptable for a human, snorting loudly. “Anyway, just check in the cabinet for Tubbo’s stuff. I’ve got a few more tests to run on the new range of stuff; it’s working so far, but some shit is still weird.”

Tommy is far too busy celebrating the go-ahead to listen in, so his reply comes off as scattered, somewhat dismissive. “How weird?”

"Not too weird."

"Huh. But it's not bad, right?"

He doesn’t really care, not when he’s about to reclaim the right to a peaceful slumber, and especially not with the shit he has yet to deal with.

“I mean, it’s not bad, but we’re a potions brewery, and not a drug den.” Quackity’s words, a little nervous, finally catch Tommy’s attention, and the shapeshifter notes it with a raised eyebrow. “It’s nothing. Just a little unneeded effect that promotes addiction -- nobody wants that.”

“Oh.” The hybrid deflates, but only slightly, gaze returning to the cabinet. “Hope it works out. What’s it for?”

He misses Quackity’s frown, lip twitching. “Just for pain. We’ll probably market it as a lesser potion for regeneration--”

“Huh.”

“--And since it was found in Schlatt’s house, it makes sense to figure out what it’s use is before it’s used for evil shit.”

Tommy freezes. "You said it wasn't _bad_ , Big Q!"

"It isn't--"

"It involves Schlatt!" Tommy, at the end of his thread, is unable to catch himself before he snaps out, and whilst Quackity manages to suppress his jump at the sound, Tommy does not.

Quackity, naturally, notices it. “ _What?_ Better us than him. Who knows what he would have done with it in its original stages?” Each word carries a certain level of contempt, as if disgusted by the possibility, but Tommy knows better than to look at his face for true feelings.

The shapeshifter’s wings, a common constant in his various forms, seem to quiver with hidden guilt.

Snapping at Schlatt's potential Vice President -- even in a historical sense -- already looks like an unneeded attack.

"Hey, I didn't mean--"

  
  
"No, no...It's fine. It's okay." Quackity looks away, and sucks in a deep breath, exhaling out his emotions. "I'm fine."

Out of everyone, Schlatt’s betrayal had obviously hit him the most -- hours pouring in as he picked up the pieces the ram hybrid had shattered. It took a while, spanning countless apologies and even more acts of service, but he seemed happier once he was accepted into the fold.

He seemed at his happiest these days, so Tommy didn’t have it in him to shatter his perception any time soon. 

“Hey...hey--” Not wanting the other to worry, the raccoon hybrid soon finds himself patting Quackity’s shoulder, a small smile forming. For all the urges he has to spill what he knows -- to tell him that something is wrong -- the words get stuck in his throat, and others pour out, sincere. “You’ve got this, Big Q. You’ve made progress and that’s all that matters.”

Everything is fine.

Quackity pauses at the words, seemingly taking his time to process them, but once he does, he can only nod in agreement. “I mean...You’re right. Fuck him for what he did, but this potion will be helpful in the long run. It’s better than nothing, I suppose.”

_ ‘It could be better.’  _ Tommy holds his tongue.

He doesn’t hold it fast enough, though, for the question is out before he realizes how it sounds. “Do you ever wonder where he went?” 

Time seems to slow as Quackity frowns, disgusted, before wrenching his shoulder out of other’s grasp. “Hell no. Wherever he is, I hope he stays there, hell, I hope he goes further away.” 

Tommy, noting the shift, backtracks. “Well, same here. I should leave you to it, then...Lots to do, and I need to get these potions back home--”

“For Tubbo?” 

“--Yeah. For Tubbo.” Quackity’s gaze hasn’t left him since the question, unblinking, and Tommy wishes he could avoid staring back at it. Despite their considerable height difference, he knows that it barely matters with a gaze like that.

The shapeshifter, for all of his tricks and humor, looks skeptical.

“For Tubbo, yeah.” Those searching eyes finally blink shut, and Quackity turns around to face the workshop once more, waving a hand at the cabinets. “Well, I hope those work out for him. If they do, tell him to tell me, since we’re trying a new ratio for drowsiness.”

“I will.” Tommy’s ears, having unconsciously flattened under the other’s gaze, spring up in relief. It’s a welcome emotion, mixing well with the triumph of opening the cabinet and retrieving three shining bottles. “I’ll let him know.”

“Oh, and Tommy?”

The hybrid pauses. “Yeah.”

“Sleep well, man.”

Tommy doesn’t need to know that Quackity is staring once more, but when he does gain the bravery to look behind him, the shapeshifter is long gone.

* * *

Sleep is in range, and as Tommy walks through the L'Manberg streets, he finds his footsteps feeling lighter than air.

The bottles are placed within a small satchel bag and slung over his shoulder, giving Tommy access to both of his hands. With such a power offered to him, he uses it to acquire an ice-cream cone from a passing vendor, grinning at the treat despite the ever cooling weather.

Sometimes, it feels better to go against the grain, and Tommy has enough experience to get that trait rolling.

He’s not required at the White House -- a blessing in disguise, given his tentative steps whenever he has to climb a small stairway -- but the sights and sounds of the inner city make him immediately seek out the quiet of the outskirts, mind set on going to the bench he and Tubbo shared. It isn’t the same without the ram hybrid, sure, but he just wants quiet. 

When the sun goes down, he will gain more of it in sleep, just as he deserves.

"Gods...Let me sleep."

His thoughts travel, light along his weary soul, and the sights and sounds of the city soon turn back to quiet bird song and the wind rustling through evergreen trees. It’s a peaceful sound, leaving him to listen to his own breathing as he soaks up the sun, but Tommy can’t help pause just before the climb to the cliffside, rummaging through his satchel for a tiny, yet effective device.

He might as well let Tubbo know where he is.

The device just fits into his palm, flattened into a square with a singular button along one of its edges. Communicators, while a common product of servers outside of the SMP, had recently become a must-have among travelers and mainstays alike, imbued with such a fantastical combination of science and magic that Tommy didn’t care for the specifics. With the theoretical ability to send messages as far as the gods can see, he’s at least glad that he can always be in direct contact with his friends, as well as view any emergencies.

It lights up in his hand, sensing that he is the rightful owner, and upon the screen, a single heart beats to an unknown tune -- a constant reminder.

He ignores it, and with a single thought, the device buzzes and pulls up Tubbo’s link, reading through whatever strain of life Tommy gave off into the universe.

It’s an impressive device.

**> Tommyinnit: hey bitch. at cliffside. see you at home**

It takes Tubbo less than a minute to respond, and by then, Tommy is already walking.

**  
** **> Tubbo: Lucky**

**> Tubbo: See you later**

Great.

Tommy doesn’t respond, merely pocketing the device and focusing on the journey ahead. It’s not a dangerous one -- path carved out long before the two placed a bench at the cliffside -- but as he makes his way up, he notes that the footsteps before are remarkably fresh.

Well,  _ maybe _ \-- he never quite paid attention during that section of Philza Survival School.

The footsteps continue up until the point where the dusty path ends, the last greens of the summer’s dying grass finally under his shoes. It’s a normal occurrence, of course, but it doesn’t concern Tommy as much as the sight just along the horizon. 

He is not alone.

The figure, however, is also pretty familiar.

As the cone within his hand gets crushed, spilling blobs of ice-cream across the grass below, he isn’t sure if he wants to turn around or walk forward.

“Holy shit…” The words are too soft to be heard by anyone but himself, but he says them anyway, voice shaking ever so slightly. “It’s you.”

The enderman hybrid, head buried within a book, remains none the wiser, tail swinging and ears flicking in concentration.

They seem calm -- peaceful.

Everything, in essence, is fine. It should be.

It isn’t.

_'Not now. Not now. Not--`_

Tommy, abandoning all tact, screams.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thursday! A little longer than usual, since I'll be back at uni next week, but here we go! Once again, I'd like to thank you all for reading! (•ө•)♡ I'm having a blast writing this so far, and as the story develops, I may start a few vague polls based on some things I'm planning.  
> Stay safe, and have fun!
> 
> Everything is fine :)

* * *

* * *

**Today, I met the president.**

**He asked me to join him in helping his nation, even if he doesn’t know me.** **  
** **He was kind and sociable.** **  
** **I felt confused. Maybe I still am.  
****I hope you can trust him soon.**

**I can’t trust him right now.**

* * *

* * *

_Finding a library had become quite a priority for Ranboo, even if there were enough books within his current home to keep him busy._

_While he was able to borrow whatever book he wanted from Niki’s reading nook, there were some things he knew he could not really ask out loud. It was fine by him, really, since the baker had honestly been helping him more than he thought he deserved, but in his silence, he needed some semblance of independence._

_He needed answers, still too sheltered in a world he barely knew, with the memories of his travels flickering in and out like a struggling flame and a new light beckoning him deeper into unknown darkness._

_He didn’t like how lost he felt, scrambling for purchase within the shadows; Ranboo wished to find his roots before the sun chose to steer his growth once more._

_‘Where am I?’_

_He wished he could answer those thoughts, reflection remaining quiet under his steady gaze._

_‘Where was I going?’_

_Missing memories -- important ones at that -- made him more afraid than ever._

_Information, no matter how small, could give anyone the power they so craved, particularly if they harnessed it well; with it, one could move an entire nation, and without it, one could fall victim to death’s apathetic hands._

_Ranboo strove to avoid the latter, but as his mind refused to cooperate, he felt exposed._

_‘Who am I?’_

_He felt vulnerable._

_He had to fix it._

  
  
  


_“I want to read this. May I borrow it?”_

_Once Niki had arrived back from her meeting, he had not said a word about the president’s visit, only asking if he could borrow a book to read before he slept. He’d spent the afternoon going through the nook, gently holding a plethora of books in his hands as he inspected the contents. There were many of them, ranging from simple cookbooks to an entire four-part collection on basic survival, but one had caught his eye pretty quickly._

_It was what he was looking for, and frankly, it was a book he wished to copy right into his memory book, if he so ever had the chance._

_“The history of L’Manberg one, yeah? It’s a pretty fun read.”_

_“Yeah, it seems so.”_

_“Great.” If Niki’s smile at his pick held any malicious intent, Ranboo didn’t see it._

_Dinner had become yet another point in Ranboo’s routine that he had grown to love, genuinely just enjoying the company, but also being able to bake for something other than the bakery below them. It was in those few nights that he’d slowly uncovered the way things were between his newfound friends, as well as recovering traits he’d not been sure he had before._

_For one, it felt good to have his sense of humour start to return to him, even if it meant having to listen to Fundy’s god awful jokes._

_“I pushed the author off the old bridge before, and then he refused to acknowledge me when he dedicated the book to everyone.” Fundy’s smirk was hard to read, teetering along the edge of truth and fiction. The chuckle that followed didn’t do much to help discern between the two either. “I think he took it personally.”_

_“You’d like Jack. He’s a little out there, but he did a great job on putting all the information in there.” Niki huffed, smiling over her soup spoon, and while Fundy broke some bread beside her, they both shared a smile of their own. It almost seemed nostalgic in nature; Ranboo couldn’t quite place it. “I know he’s a governor and all, but he took the time to write everything down. Pretty cool.”_

_“You know a governor?”_ _  
_ _  
_ _“Yup.”_

_“Hmm.” Ranboo could feel himself growing quite frustrated with all the ambiguity. “Well, I appreciate when people document stuff. I’m the memory guy, after all.”_

_“That you are.” Niki merely shrugged at it, though when Ranboo risked a glance, the sympathy showed in her eyes. “It’s been...Well, it’s been a long fight. I’m glad it’s over, even though I kinda only saw the tail end of it.”_

_“It is over. I mean, there's still a lot to do , but it’s more or less over.” Fundy’s ears flicked once in agreement, trying to talk around the bread in his mouth. With a soft guffaw when Niki took a friendly swipe at his manners, he swallowed deeply._

_“I, erm…” He paused, and it was quite noticeable. “Well...Sorry if anything you read in there makes things look a little weird. We know a lot of people -- and I mean a lot of them -- but we’re all just friends. The book is more for preserving history, I guess. Right?”_

_“Right.”_

_“And if you have any questions, you can ask us, right?”_

_Ranboo had stared at Fundy for what seemed like hours, unblinking, before he realized that the question was directed at him. “Yeah...Right.”_

_He had yet to ask if the vulpine knew his father had visited, or if he generally visited at all, but by the way Fundy’s tail thumped softly on the side of his seat, expelling unlabeled emotion, Ranboo couldn’t find it in him to express anything of the sort. “Great.”_

_It was odd, after all, that the young fox didn’t even know that he’d visited._

_As Ranboo ate through his soup, quietly picking up little tidbits on what he was about to read, the question stayed on his mind._

* * *

It’s late now, moon at its peak among a starlit sky. Ranboo, however, sits alone in the dark, door shut and lights dim. If it were not for the silent companion he has in the book -- holding within the multiple voices of a world he wishes to delve into -- he would truly feel alone.

The book rests upon his lap once the lights flicker out underneath the door to his room, with the hybrid waiting a few more minutes until he is quite sure that both of his caregivers ( _friends?_ ) have fallen asleep. It feels odd to be so secretive, if not paranoid by their reactions to his pursuit for knowledge, but Ranboo knows that he has not survived as long as he has through blindly following.

They’re too close to history’s current architects, after all; some biases can not be shaken once attached.  
  
Unfortunately, he has to uncover it all on his own.

“Phew...”

The book before him, hopefully, has the capacity to help:

**L’Manberg: A History**

It is bound in the most expensive of leather covers, golden engravings detailing its title and presenting a shining example for what the nation has grown to become. It’s a first edition, or so Niki had mentioned, detailing a lot that other editions may have summarized for a quicker read. 

Fundy, ever the open one, merely joked that the author had hated the first draft, so more were printed.

Ranboo hadn’t laughed.

Hatred or not, it’s the closest edition to the real thing -- raw in its own way -- and Ranboo is grateful for it, voice low as he traces along the first page. He stares, unblinking, as if the words would jump out at him immediately, gripping and yanking him into the pages.

He would not be surprised if he sunk into it of his own accord, since his hands are shaking, expecting nothing less than the universe to unleash its twisted games. 

Ranboo head throbs ever so slightly -- a reminder on what came before, and he shakes it, huffing.

He needs to know.

_‘I have to know.’_ After all this time, he still cannot shake off the feeling that he’s done something terribly wrong.

“Come on now...You’re not bad. You’re not a threat.” The book stares back at him, heavier in his hands than in any other, and as a clawed hand finally musters up the courage to turn the page, Ranboo sucks in a breath…

“You’re just words, so here goes nothing...” 

Ranboo reads. 

**The Dream SMP is a land filled with many wonders...**

“...And with it, came many opportunities.” His voice barely rises above a whisper, eyes swinging side so side like two neon orbs in the dark. The words soon start to grip at his tongue, leading him further and further into the tale, and before Ranboo knows it, he’s in a trance.

He’s invested -- truly and utterly intrigued.

It’s such a shame, he finds, only a few chapters in, that he cannot shake off the smile across the counter in his memories, eyes holding more than any book could ever hope to master.

“Wilbur Soot...That must be him.”

The book talks of a revolution, detailing the determination of a select few against the ruling majority. There are times where Ranboo finds himself flipping back a few chapters, eyes flicking back and forth as he remembers a tidbit that became important later in the story, but overall, the chapters flow with a certain sort of satisfaction, oftentimes stirring up his own wishes for peace and freedom. L’Manberg -- tiny, yet mighty -- is a concept many could get behind.

Hunched over and ears pricked, Ranboo doesn’t sleep that night, learning of revolutions and betrayals alike, of freedom and tyranny, of justice and tragedy. 

It’s interesting; gods, it’s incredibly engaging. L’Manberg: young, wild and oh-so flawed.

It takes a night and a half for him to power through, hands stained with ink as he jots down a few notes in his memory book, but by the time he nears the end, the emotions within him have yet to settle into something satisfying themselves.

Unlike the book, Ranboo feels more confused than ever.

**Dream’s Greater SMP were tyrants, under the iron fist of a ruler too tied to a deity’s will that he thought himself as a god. When those within L’Manberg’s land chose to defect, to carve their own paths for the deities to witness, they were stopped at every turn and herded into every corner.**

**They were hunted. They were attacked. They were betrayed.**

**And yet, they succeeded.**

**It is with these sacrifices that we celebrate the history of this great nation, pushing her boundaries and rallying her people for the greater good. We stand as one -- under a peaceful ruler and with peaceful allies -- and sing our songs for all to hear. L’Manberg and her allies hold a special place in the lives of many, and by the will of the gods, she will flourish tenfold.**

**She will rise, and she will take us with her.**

**It is meant to be.**

The book is placed on a side-table, motion gentle due to the object’s similarity to an important relic, and Ranboo opts to center the memory book on his lap. Before him, the messy scrawl of his handwriting springs to life, letters a little hard to read for the uninitiated, but legible nonetheless.

“That’s...it?”

He still has questions -- he still has fears.

He has failed.

Understanding Wilbur’s friendly invitation, oh so alluring, has not come in the form of a history lesson.

“Maybe I missed something?” The mutter does nothing to hide his disappointment, previously relaxed ears pressing down in frustration. He had been so sure -- absolutely sure, in fact -- that everything would work out once he read the book. That, within the pages before him, he could craft himself a foundation to stand upon, seeking to serve instead of wander.

He wants a home -- a real home.

“I missed something. I had to have missed something.”

L’Manberg seems like a place he would have travelled towards, memory problems or not, and yet, he still feels lost.

Skeptical.

“I can’t -- I don’t understand…” Head cradled in his hands, Ranboo feels that dread settle in, oh so disappointed and definitely all-consuming. “That can’t be it. There’s more...There has to be.”

_‘L’Manberg, for all her beauty, is like a beehive. Work with it, and reap the fruits of everyone's joint loyalty; disturb it, and receive a sting.’_ He’s forgotten just how the feeling curls around him - mind wiped of the memories expressing the -- but it starts to loom upon him like a smile in the darkness. 

He hates the familiarity of it all. 

He hates how well it seems to know him, long before he knows himself. **_‘What if you’re a threat? What if you’re a threat? You forgot, because you need to hide.’_ **

“I’m not...I’m not a threat. He asked me to help him, not the other way around. I don’t know why, but he asked.” 

The response, dissolving in thin air, is soft, uncertainty painting his features. Despite being alone in his room, Ranboo cannot help but think that there is something watching -- someone judging. 

**_‘What does he see in you that you don’t?’_ **

Someone is laughing.

**_‘Who are you?`_ **

The book is shut and locked immediately, sending an audible smack into the air, and as Ranboo jumps at the sound, he swears that he can hear that very laugh fade into the walls. It echoes just beyond the reaches of his memories as well, all too familiar, yet just as mysterious. 

He hates it; it’s probably telling lies.

The silence, in turn, starts to become equally suffocating.

“I may not know who I am, but I know who I’m not.” He steels his expression, staring into the self-made void of his bedroom wall. “Who am I? I’m not a threat.”

He may not be a threat, but there are surely others out there who care little about holding that title. Ranboo cannot help but wonder if they’re watching him.

“I am not a threat.”

That thought of that unseen _someone -- all knowing and all seeing_ \-- lingers long after he finally manages to sleep, and while his dreams are filled with sheer nothingness, the hybrid’s pearl still rattles with unchecked fear.

* * *

With the days that have passed, routine barely deviating, it doesn’t take long for the hybrid to itch for adventure. Those cravings, along with an ever strengthening self-confidence, have Ranboo mustering up the courage to explore the nation alone. 

The stitches across his temple have started to sink back into his skin, particularly when he notes that -- indeed -- Fundy keeps minor regeneration potions within the bathroom. With such a notable scar having faded enough not to be noticed at first glance, the enderman hybrid knows he has a little more confidence.

He doesn’t look like some bloodthirsty hostile mob hybrid, nursing potentially fatal wounds.

He is not a threat.

_I just want to get some fresh air._

“You’re sure that you’ll get around okay?”

Naturally, Fundy looks up from his breakfast when he suggests it, if only to check that his guest isn’t looking to do a runner, but Ranboo finds enough words within himself to explain the concern away. 

_I’ll be fine_ , he says, shouldering one of the vulpine hybrid’s old satchel-bags onto his shoulder. The strap almost doesn’t fit well due to his height, but he makes it work. Walking around with his memory book out in the open isn’t something he wishes to do, especially after the painful loss of the former. _It’s just a quick trip to the library._

Fundy’s ears twitch at the mention of the building, nose wrinkling ever so slightly, but he doesn’t push for more information.

“Okay.” Instead, he yawns, showing off tiny fangs as he does so. “Need directions for that? It’s a bit far.”

Ranboo is grateful for that.

“Sure.”

Thus, for the first time in what feels like ages, the hybrid rushes up the stairs to enter his room and make himself look presentable, rummaging past the oversized shirts (bought in a rush by Fundy) until he retrieves his suit jacket, followed by his pants. The rip at the former’s shoulder has been sewn up quite well, leaving an easily missable line of stitches, but once Ranboo slides it back upon his thin frame, he feels a little more complete.

It feels like _him,_ and he can't help but revel in the familiarity as he stares in a mirror nearby.

The rest of his original attire follows suit, a pleasant weight among the days of uncertainty and unexpected beginnings; fiddling with his tie, for one, manages to ignite a little warble on his lips, almost sounding like the deep reverb of a cat’s purr.

He’s happy. 

_‘Today will be a good day.’_

The thought is a challenge that he is willing to undertake, and as he launches himself into the streets of L’Manberg, catching the warmth of the sun almost immediately, Ranboo finds himself leaning deeper and deeper into that optimism.

“Today is a good day.”

He is not a threat. He never has been, weaving through the citizens with as little as a glance directed towards him.

He is safe. He is happy.

It’s a splendid day, indeed.

The hybrid’s steps grow lighter the further he travels away from the bakery, taking in the sights and sounds of the nation with the piqued interest of any tourist. He has to admit that the architecture is pretty interesting for such a young nation, with the obvious mismatched styles matching with the types of travellers choosing to dig in their roots for once in their lives. It’s refreshing.

He likes the beauty of it.

On his route, he spots a few quirks that almost make him pause, oh so familiar, but not quite; it’s those little things that matter, however, so he opts to cling onto them in order to scribble them into his memory book later in the day.

Who knows, perhaps they will be of use.

The library, however, grants no such familiar feelings, somehow maintaining an ancient aesthetic despite being established less than a year prior. If it were not for the history he had soaked in not too long ago, Ranboo knows he would have thought of it as such.

The interior seems to mimic the creator’s design choices just as well, with row upon row of bookshelves illuminated by lanterns and glowstone. High ceilings -- a trait he notes with glee -- seem to be the standard kept throughout.

It exudes comfort; Ranboo commits the location to memory.

He’s lucky to have arrived when he does, for the process of acquiring a book feels as blissfully effortless as anything he has already done that day. The librarian -- a quiet old lady, shrouded in a cloak -- barely blinks at the request she is presented with, slowly ushering the hybrid through the shelves and then pointing to the top shelf with renewed vigour. 

The book is too high for her to reach, which is something Ranboo keeps to himself once he plucks the book from its position, but when he notes the librarian hum in approval, he cannot help but smile at the offhand praise.

“Tall one, you are.”

“Thank you.”

She pats at his arm, humming in approval once more, and his smile grows.

Comfort: he likes the place. 

He clears his throat gently, trying to quell the nerves resting in his throat. “Excuse me for asking, but I’m new to L’Manberg and I’m looking for somewhere calm to read...”

“This is a library.” The librarian makes a small noise, confused, but she swings a hand to show the library before her. Ranboo, risking a glance, notes that she has opted to stare up at him, eyebrow raised. 

He stares back, though only briefly, and she continues talking. “You can read here. It’s alright, dear. If anyone bothers you, tell me..”

_‘Oh.’_

It is in that moment that Ranboo realizes that the words are not the most thought through of questions. 

He chuckles, albeit in embarrassment. “No no wait! I’m not implying that I would not read here...It’s a lovely place, ma’am.” The chuckle she offers makes him pause and catch his breath. “I want to read outside. Fresh air and all that. It’s just a nice day and taking advantage of that before the winter rolls in feels right--”

Ranboo barely notices that they’ve already made it to the counter, gestures growing all the more expressive as he tries to rationalize his thoughts without presumably hurting the other’s feelings. The librarian, sensing this, merely tuts and grabs gently at the young hybrid’s wrist, causing the taller to halt his speech with a soft, confused warble. 

She doesn’t need to look up to know he is staring, but she smiles nonetheless, still tutting softly. “Do you…” Her voice is a little hoarse around the edges, but Ranboo’s ears prick up to hear every word. “Have a communicator? Have a map?”

“I...I don’t, but I can direct myself if that’s okay?” The nerves in his reply crackle in the air like static, and she shakes her head. 

That will not do; he’s oh-so polite, after all, so lending a calming hand is next to nothing.

“Let’s...fix that, tall one.”

* * *

Ranboo leaves with a book tucked under an arm, a library card within his satchel and crisp new map in his hands. Upon the latter, a red line sends him towards a cliffside. 

She says that he’ll probably like it; he has no reason not to believe her.

She was nice to him. That matters.

As Ranboo travels towards it, none the wiser of its importance, the world around him continues with their day.

Everything, for once, is fine.

* * *

Everything is not fine.

_“It’s you!”_

The scream feels far too close to be ignored, and it takes less than a second for Ranboo to whirl around and face his attacker. 

Having spent a few hours at the lovely cliffside bench, surrounded by the remnants of once purple flowers, the hybrid soon ignored everything and anything around him except for the book in his hands.

A lighter read than the first history book, **The History of the Dream SMP** adds some interesting insight into the opposition of what he knew as a messy revolution. He can barely spot their lands over the trees from where he sits, a testament to the balls the L’Manberg founders had to establish themselves so close. If they are that close, merely separated by a deep ravine, it makes their revolution all the more impressive -- riveting, even.

Riveting or not, however, the book is shut within his palm as a hiss of fear leaks out of his lips, tail lashing from side to side once the adrenaline takes over. Ranboo isn’t much of a fighter -- he knows this -- but instinct overwhelms reason in that moment. Fight, for once, supersedes flight.

He is a threat.

His attacker, however, is obviously not.

“Wait! Woah woah woah, wait!” The hybrid before him, gaze frightened, takes a step back, and that’s when Ranboo notes that his teeth are bared. “Shit, fuck-- wait!”

He probably looks like a threat.

_‘Oh gods.’_

Ranboo slams his jaw shut, an apologetic murmur barely making it past the motion, and he ducks his head in embarrassment. 

They’re just a kid -- if not younger -- but given the nature of servers, he is not surprised by the glistening pocket knife now resting in the other’s hand. 

Survival makes everyone adapt quite quickly.

The silence that follows, with both hybrids catching their breaths, sets the stage for chaos.

“Sorry--”  
  
_“Sorry?”_

“I...I don’t know if I know you, but if I do, I’m sorry.” Bending down slowly, Ranboo places the book on the bench, raising his shaking hands in an obviously neutral position. “Do I know you?” He notes, interestingly enough, that his words make the other hybrid stiffen ever so slightly, but he refuses to make true eye contact.

Being so high strung in that moment makes any thoughts of being seen feel all the more frustrating.

“It’s you.” The stranger says, eyes deliberately fixed upon the other, seemingly unafraid of getting attacked. If he is that confident, then Ranboo already knows that the kid probably has hunted endermen, among other things. _“You’re the guy.”_

His words bring no comfort.

Thus, then the hybrid breathes in, Ranboo expects everything except what he receives. 

“You’re the hybrid who got mugged in the forest and broke out of the clinic.”

_‘Oh--’_

“Wait, what…” Ranboo startles at the other’s words, looking up and noting that the hybrid -- arms folded -- has a slight scowl on his face. “I don’t want any trouble.”

“Trouble?!” However, the body language the stranger presents is more than enough to understand that he is teetering on annoyance. “You ran off from the clinic! Had everyone worried!”

_‘Mugged? Worried?’_

The thoughts race through Ranboo’s mind at lightning speed, leaving the poor hybrid speechless, if only for a moment. 

“I don’t understand.”

The moment passes, leaving words to tumble out, a little garbled. He’s scared, sure, but curiosity slowly creeps out as well. “Do you know me?”

_‘Am I a threat?’_

There is always the chance that this hybrid has all the answers.

“Not really, no.” 

_‘Am I -- Nevermind.’_

The raccoon hybrid, naturally, is none the wiser to the battle in the other’s head, diverting their gaze as they stomp closer. No matter how brave they are, there is a difference between staring down something truly hostile to survive and staring up at a scared and confused hybrid. With their height difference so blatantly obvious, the shorter puffs out his chest subconsciously. “We found you bleeding out on the ground, stuff stolen. Took you to the nearest clinic for help with your head, since you were bleeding everywhere.”  
  
Ranboo, hand lifting, goes to brush at the ever-healing scar under his hair, pupils blown. 

“I...I don’t remember anything about that, sorry.” 

“You remember nothing? Sure.”

“I don’t.”

The silence returns, albeit briefly.

Dead flowers rock in the gentle breeze.  
  
“Anything?” The stranger does not seem to believe the story, voice fading into what can be described as a series of confused puffs of air. “Did you lose your memory, or something?”

_‘Or something.’_

Ranboo holds his tongue, sighing softly. He has no reason to trust the smaller hybrid before him, raccoon features displaying all he needs to know in a single glance, but he does somewhat feel a little grateful that he doesn’t seem hostile. Perhaps, in some way, the story checks out. 

Grateful or not, it doesn’t stop him from lying -- just a tiny one born out of self-preservation. “...Yes, I lost my memory, but I’m getting it back a little every day.”

It’s just for survival, after all.

“Oh.”

The hybrid’s ears pick up, then lax in what Ranboo assumes as a twinge of sympathy, “Oh...that sucks ass. It still doesn’t really explain the whole hospital breakout, but if I woke up alone and without my memories, I probably would have done the same thing.” There is a shuffling in the grass, and Ranboo notices the other’s tail brushing through it, a symbol of ever lessening tension. 

Withered petals get caught in the fur, but he seems to ignore it. “At least you’re okay…Or at least I think you are?”

The tone is so genuine, voice rising with skepticism, that Ranboo finally has reason to chuckle. The sound only increases when he sees the hybrid before him is scowling up at him out of the corner of his eyes. “I think I’m getting better, yeah. Thanks for, erm, helping out...It was nice of you, both of you, in fact.” 

Reflexively, the enderman hybrid extends a hand in greeting, voice still a little airy. “Oh, I’m Ranboo, by the way. New to L’Manberg, I think.”

“I guess you are, memory guy. I’ve never seen a hybrid like you around here, and knowing these things is kinda my job.” Their sizes immediately contrast with the handshake -- Ranboo’s lengthened hands almost engulfing the other’s tinier claws and furred knuckles -- but the strength of it is casual, if not friendly. The smaller, nodding once, steps back once it’s done. “I’m Tommy, but you may already know that. Welcome to L’Manberg, big man.”

“Oh, nice. Thanks, Tommy.” It doesn’t hit immediately, since Ranboo is still preoccupied with shifting his stance to something less tense, but once it does, he freezes.

Words from the book he previously read start to bleed into his mind, talking of overworld hybrids.

One of them, of course, happens to be a raccoon.

“Wait-- Tommy, as in…”

A friendly smile clouds his vision, bringing the smell of raspberry tarts. 

“You’re Tommyinnit.”

Tommy, naturally, is none the wiser, scoffing softly and ducking his head. “I mean, yeah. It’s not really that big of a deal. It’s just job shit, after all, and you’re new.” With his gaze fixed on a bed of decaying flowers beside them, he misses the dilation in Ranboo’s pupils. “You a fan?”

He misses the cues that would have made the taller’s reply all the more interesting. “It’s kinda a big deal...I mean, what are the odds?”

“Pretty shit, usually...I’m not that lucky, trust me.” Tommy barks out a laugh, which the other does not reciprocate.

“Uh huh.” Ranboo cannot do so, not with the numbers pointing to impossible rates.

Fate can be mysterious. Ranboo knows this, but in this moment, he cannot help but feel like the mystery is fabricated. A lie.

A setup.

“I mean, I’ve met the President, so meeting the Vice-President is a natural progression, right?”

The hybrid casts his fears into the universe, bait dangling in the form of nonchalance. He has to know -- he _needs_ to know. 

_‘I need to know.’_

In the silence, he waits, breath hitched, but the line soon tugs. 

And when it tugs, there is no going back. 

From the stiffening of Tommy’s shoulders, to the sheer panic rising in his voice, Ranboo feels himself grip tightly onto his mental rod, curiosity burning, and get yanked violently into the waiting waters. 

  
“What did you say?”

Ranboo laughs, a hollow, yet nervous sound, and shakes his head. 

_‘There’s no going back.’_

He’s sinking, but he is not afraid.

“I said...What did you say?” 

Ranboo doesn’t notice the blade of the pocket knife until the tip rests at his throat, and in an instant, he feels himself get swallowed whole.


End file.
